


The camera never lies, except when it does.

by Howlynn



Series: The Camera Never Lies series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorable Greg Lestrade, Angst, Annoyed Greg Lestrade, BAMF John, BAMF Lestrade, Bickering, Big Brother Mycroft, CCTV abuse, Confused Greg Lestrade, Crack, Crack and Drama, Danger, Deeper view of Eurus, Djinn reference, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eurus broke John, Eurus fixes John a little., Fake/Pretend Relationship, Father Sigerson Holmes, Fountain pen porn, Greg Lestrade is a saint, Historical References, Humor, Inspired by Real Events, Iraq, It's Not A Game Anymore, Jealousy, Jim Moriarty is a good husband, Jim is a good guy sort of, John Watson is a very good doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, Lawrence of Arabia References, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining Greg, Pining Sherlock, Post series 4, Protective Mycroft, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Samarra - Freeform, Sexy Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Sherstrade by default, The four Holmes siblings, canon twists, mystrade, trip to the sandbox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-12-11 14:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 68
Words: 97,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11716437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howlynn/pseuds/Howlynn
Summary: Greg began to notice something odd on the building across from his flat.   He first thought it funny and dismissed it as a wasteful Governmental error, but as the bouquet of CCTV cameras multiplied he began to wonder if he was being wooed in a slightly creepy way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Greg began to notice something odd on the building across from his flat.   He first thought it funny and dismissed it as a wasteful Governmental error, but as the bouquet of cameras multiplied he began to wonder if he was being wooed in a slightly creepy way.    

That night he stood at his front window sipping a beer while wearing a silk pair of boxers and matching dressing gown his wife had bought him years ago and he had never ventured to wear.   He pretended to be lost in thought as he watched the cameras, one by one, turn toward his flat.   

He smiled slightly and decided that two could play the seduction game.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up early the next morning and with a battered pair of mirrored sunglasses, the DI went for a morning jog.   It was not a long one as he was over the bloody hill and had been letting himself wallow in depression and booze lately.  He pushed himself a bit to show off, as he watched the cameras blatantly turn as he passed each one.  He probably should have been more angry than he was.  Finding the attention flattering had to be a personality warp brought on by long exposure to the clan Holmes.  

 

But, somehow he did find it flattering enough that he sucked his gut in and felt a rush of pleasure at the thought that he was so well protected.  He kept up the ruse until he made it past his front door, floaters in his field of vision and burning aches screaming all over, before he sat on the first available surface and tried to suck enough oxygen into his smokers lungs not to pass out.

He showered and dressed with a bit more care than normal.   If he was under scrutiny, he had to maximise his assets.   

 

He wished his hair was not so grey and his face not so etched with the storms and stress of his life.  Mycroft had far fewer lines and wrinkles but he probably had poncy face creams and a team of masseuses to work out his kinks.   He sure knew how to smell spectacular and the way he dressed was breathtaking.   

 

Lestrade took heart that after the total cluster-weep that was left behind in the wake of a third Holmes on planet madness that Mycroft was still paying attention and somehow interested in his activities.   Even if he was wrong, it still made him feel good.   

 

There was a pile of work to do and he lost himself for a few hours.   Sherlock texted, demanding he drop all and come to the morgue.   He had planned a lunch break, but if he lost a couple pounds, even better.   So he headed to Bart's.   The cameras played where's Wally the whole way.

 

Once he and Sherlock finished with their emergency clue share, Greg asked as evenly as he could after the detectives brother.

 

Sherlock shrugged distracted by something on his phone. "Fine.  Why?"

 

Greg shrugged back.  "Just asking.   What does he do to, you know, relax.  Get away? Hobbies?"

 

Sherlock glanced at Greg in disapproving annoyance.  "He makes people disappear,  creates instability in small countries and swoops in like an avenging God of wrath to get them to do his bidding for a price.  On a really good day he basks in the gratitude of some sovereign while slurping snobbish wine and dining with a plethora of superfluous utensils.  Why do you ask?"

 

Lestrade sighed and could feel his face turn red.

 

"Oh God.   You cannot be that desperate to have your heart shattered again...." Sherlock trailed off and sucked in his breath as if he just had a hit of heroine.  He smiled and it was slightly frightening.  Sherlock leaned in and whispered, "I know my brother better than anyone, save Anthea perhaps, but I can reach him in ways even she cannot.  I could help you?"   

 

Greg leaned back in surprised delight, then his face fell at the hunger he saw behind the offer.  "Why would you do that?"

 

"Isn't that some friend rule?   Of course I will help you."

 

" Yeah.  But it is you so...only for a price."

 

Sherlock's smile turned into a psychotic leer as he rumbled, "Just so.  Because friends help each other."

 

" God help me," Lestrade mumbled.    

 

"Not quite.  But I am the closest you've got." Sherlock made for the door expecting Greg to follow as he added, "And I did pull off that  Resurrection thing a couple years back..."   

 

Greg had a very bad feeling he had said Sherlock was a good man rather prematurely as he followed the man in the billowing coat.


	3. Chapter 3

He should have known better than to ask Sherlock bleeding Holmes anything of a personal nature.  Of course he would know within seconds what he had been up to and if he were wrong, and in all probability he was, Sherlock had leverage for the rest of his life.   It was a boon to him while it was just his secret hope, but now it was in the hands of the great nutter detective.  It made it far more real and much more likely to end in near suicidal inducing humiliation. 

 

Sherlock stopped abruptly.  " You think he fancies you?"

 

"Not really.   No.  Look just forget it...I should have--"

 

" You do.   You have been down at the heels for ages.  You did not listen to me about the last three misplaced attempts at getting a leg over.   Since then you have given up the idea entirely.  You would never pursue the likes of my brother without some significant encouragement...not with your self esteem at an all time low.  You are several times burned and have yet to ask out Dimmock's new bagman despite all her encouraging looks and excuses to pop in your office.  Maybe you find the age difference off putting or maybe you are bored with women but why my brother? You have been acquainted for years yet there has been no consumption of lingering whisky with boring life moments exchanged before crackling fires.  From your stained tie and sludged shoes and lack of useless expensive overtures of gifting affection, he has obviously done nothing to encourage you to  come to the conclusion he would be amenable to your prolonged company, but something ....yes...something has changed and it convinced you that the most unavailable man in all of London...would be interested in...You.  Oh don't look at me like that.  Tell me what it is.  Why have you spiffed up?  Wearing your best suit, neatly shaved and your hair blown dry to look more full.  You even worked out this morning...look at your skin...glowing from the increased oxygen supply...so tell me.  What has made you flush with this utterly absurd conclusion?"

 

Greg sucked his lip between his teeth and seemed to deflate.   It was absurd, wasn't it.  What would a posh bastard want with him?   "You're right.   You always are.  Stupid of me.   Probably saved me a lot of trouble.  Ta." Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and wished he could just get as far away from Sherlock as possible.  " Forget it.  Okay?" He turned and took five steps before he heard Sherlock double time to catch up with him.

 

"Sorry.   That was probably..."

 

"Mean?  Yeah.  A bit.  But, still not wrong."

 

"Just tell me?  Then I will know and we can be done with it."

 

Greg studied Sherlock for a moment and pulled his phone out of his pocket.  He opened the gallery and scrolled to a photo and held it out for Sherlock to see. "That is across the street from my front door.  Six weeks ago, there were only three."

 

Sherlock frowned.  He looked closely, and expanded the photo.   

 

"I guess it was just a ..."

 

Sherlock leaped in the air and cackled in glee. "Yes.  Brilliant Deduction, Gordon.  You are learning.   Because, this?  Ohhhhh, my brother has got it bad!  This is the best day ever."

 

Greg sighed in frustration.   "I did not expect you would..."

 

"What?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Approve...not be a shit about it...seem so bloody barmy?" Greg volinteered.    

 

"Nonsense.  You keeping my brother distracted?  Keeping his smarmy face out of my flat between his international meddling?  Cheering you up and knowing you will have incentive to pawn cases onto me to free up time for the odd dirty weekend? That is a win win plan.  Come on.   You have a new wardrobe to buy.  We are going to have him playing Golf with Boris by the end of the week."

 

"Golf?  I don't get it?"

 

"Mycroft only bothers to play golf when he is furious.   That is the only time he can beat our infamous former mayor," Sherlock explained as he dialed Royal Blackheath and asked for a tee time for Mycroft Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed.  Number 11 Savile Row was not crowded, but it was a Wednesday afternoon and all the posh bankers were still busy counting gold and here he stood like a numpty in a place he had no business ever entering without the call of a dead body.   The gentleman at Huntsman had greeted them cordially, Sherlock by first name, yet asked after his brother as "the young Lord Holmes" and if anything could put him off this plan any more, he happened to see the price of a dress shirt and let go of the fabric as if it had burned him.   

 

"Sherlock!" he hissed again.

 

"For God's sake, stop hovering by the door and do come in.  We have work to do!" Sherlock replied.

 

Greg walked carefully, not wanting to soil the carpets with his common grit and said as low as he could make his voice, "Huntsman?  Seriously?   Sherlock, that shirt over there is almost three...Hundred pounds.   My whole suit didn't cost that much-- "

 

"Yes?  Obviouly?"  Sherlock looked down his nose at what Lestrade was wearing.    He looked confused.

 

Greg wiped his face with his hand and shook his head.   "Look.. It was a lovely thought, truly.  I mean that.  But, I live on a coppers salary, yeah?  I cannot afford a gulp of water from this place, much less a suit. " 

 

" Champagne whilst you browse gentlemen?" a man held the tall flutes of bubbly out on a small tray.  

 

Sherlock nodded and picked up both glasses handing one to Lestrade without comment.   He took a sip and innocently said, "Tell Campbell that we need his measurements for the MTM we want today, but we will do bespoke for the eveningwear, of course.   Also.  Need a few shirts and I would like him to double check my guesses. At his convenience."  

 

"Very good, sirs."   The man smiled and gave a perfect head nod that seemed like a bow.

 

"Sherlock, you are not understanding.  I do not have the money for this.  That suit says twenty- seven- hundred pounds." 

 

Sherlock tilted his head.  "No you do not understand.  You are not buying anything so shut up and be prepared.   They are about to ask you which side your penis likes to hang and I want pictures of your face.  The answer is you dress left, just like me, by the way.  Now, lie back and think of England my, good man."   

 

Sherlock headed toward the back of the store and dragged a shocked policeman along with him.

 

Lestrade had in fact been asked said question.  The man had been six inches from the subject of the inquiry and his hand had been nestled in unspeakable places at the time.  He had never been so horrified in his life and swore allegiance to Off-the-peg for the rest of his mortal days.

 

Sherlock drank three glasses of the free refreshments, had three tiny sandwiches and ask a dozen questions Greg did not understand about fabrics he had never heard of.  He tried on multiple items and was honestly too overwhelmed to do more than hang on.   Finally he was allowed to sit and he again was filled with doubts.

 

 "Sherlock...you can't just drop fifteen thousand pounds to get me a date with your brother." 

 

Sherlock did not look up from the fabric samples and hummed, " mmmm...can't I?  I don't know...the black is classic, but on you, the espresso will do more for your eyes.  Yes that one."    

 

Greg sighed.

 

"Oh.  What now.  Do stop whinging.  You are worth the investment."

 

" Nicest thing you probably ever said to me.  But, heres the thing...if I need all this to impress him. Then I will never be...the right person for him.  Do you see?"

 

"Impress him?  That is not the point at all. We are going to piss him off, Gomer...not impress him."  Sherlock laughed.

 

"Wait.   What are you saying?  I do not want him angry.  I want ...I want him to..." Lestrade was flummoxed on what to say next.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled in disgust.  "Ohhhhhhh..you poor man.  One brief shining moment then back in the koi pond you go.  Mycroft has twenty three cameras aimed at your front door.  He is pining but though he can make dictator's knees buckle, he has not the bollocks to pick up the phone and have you kidnaped and delivered.   So.  What must we do to get him to act?  Oh easy...force him into a corner and he will morph into the most manipulative maniacally obsessed toad ever to not croak.   He will connive and foil and all around take over our lives...until such time as he has won your fair hand away from his evil brother.   This?   This is just the opening note to our symphony. "

 

"I have no idea what you just said.  How the hell does that work?" 

 

 "You see...if you chase him, he will use every tool known to inspector gadget to evade you...deny you...feign indifference.   That is his standard mode.  But...you....you are not going to be the beautiful virgin chained for the dragon...no.  You are going to play the role of my latest dalliance ..and that will prompt him to act.  He will have to win your heart from me and that my, dear Griffin, will add value to you and restore his peace of mind that he is the master of all and still my older wiser brother."

 

"What?  But...I thought...you and...John...got yourselves sorted?"

 

Sherlock looked at his nails and dug at the cuticle.  "John has demanded that I share a bed with the woman."

 

"What?  He does know you are gay? Right?   My eleven year old niece knows you are gay.   Mrs. Hudson knows--"

 

"Yes, thank you.   John Watson on the other hand has the intuition of a marble.  So...we will play our parts and hope we are not stuck with each other for all time just because nobody else can stand us and the ones we love are gifted with the self awareness of postage stamps." Sherlock sat exuding misery for a moment.

 

"As horrifying as that sounds.  It just might work."

 

Sherlock's head swiveled to stare at him.  "You think so?"

 

Greg smiled.  "Yeah.  I do."  

 

Greg took the fabric samples and flipped through them. "Even if it doesn't work and we are stuck with one another....I could do worse. And I like the green better than the brown."

 

The two men looked at each other for nearly ten seconds when the giggling started as little gasps.   When Sherlock added, "You have done worse," they caused a scene and were promptly brought more champagne.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Greg was sat in the cab with two of the most expensive suits he had ever owned draped across his lap.  They had not stopped there.   He had new shoes and the overwhelming urge to sing a verse of 'Puttin on the Ritz' as he sat next to his new sugar daddy, Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock was silent for most of the ride, eyes shifting from one field of interest to the next as he probably contemplated string theory or calculated the exact amount of noxious gasses visible in the air today.  The rush hour had begun and it was getting dark.

 

"I just wanted to say...ermm...thank you.  Never even dreamed I could have a kit like this...I think I may cry if I spill anything...ever." His hand patted the zipper reverently.  

 

Sherlock smiled softly, for once the man looked at Greg with fondness rather than contempt.  "You are more than welcome, Gary."   

 

Greg chuckled and shook his head.  "If we are going to fake this convincingly, you might want to drop the act.  I know you know my name."

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh, as if put upon. "Very well, Grady."

 

Greg laughed.  "Yeah...you never explained why you do that. You know...Stanley?"

 

"You like being frustrated with me.  It deflects from things you have a right to actually be annoyed with me over." Sherlock finally admitted to his reflection.   "I have never understood why you put up with me."

 

Lestrade laughed but in a way that seemed with Sherlock and not at Sherlock.  "I have said that many times.  Even meant it some days.   But in the end...there was this guy in my own department who planned to put a bullet in my head.  Drank coffee with him.  Walked by him every day. Never had a clue.  Thought he was a little bit at least, a friend.  But, he could sit there and take the piss, go for a pint, chat about our families and not one moment of it was real.  He would have killed me and anyone who got in his way.  None of it was real.  You are real.  Not to get sappy--"

 

"Then don't." Sherlock admonished firmly. 

 

"... Fuck you too.  Except when you were dead..." Lestrade squinted hard and shook his head. "...I thought I drove you to it and I tried not to think that way...but I pressured you and the next day Sally comes in, bloody tears in her eyes...thought the wife had met the front end of a bus the way she was acting.  Said, 'Sir...I think we killed our Freak.'   I know you had to and why...but it was a really bad time."

 

"Yes...well.  We can leave it in the past..."

 

"No. We are stuck here and you got nothing better to do so for once, you're gonna hear me.  Look...I have a ton of people I know.  Some I call friends.  You are the biggest damned knob I know, but in the end, you are also the one person I am totally sure would have my back.  So all the rest...all the crap you pull...none of it is as true as that.   You are real."

 

Sherlock looked over at him horrified.  "I cannot wait to break up with you."

 

Greg smirked, pleased with himself.  "Yeah? Well, just so you know...even though you dropped a bomb to get me to fake date you.  I do not put out."

 

Sherlock snorted.  "Yes.   You do.  What?  I have eyes everywhere...is that news to you?"

 

Lestrade nudged him in the ribs, "Never know...might like it."

 

Sherlock shook his head as if he were about to deny it then sighed and tilted his head back and forth as if contemplating.  "Once upon a time.  Perhaps.   Before...." he trailed off and waved his hand as if that explained.

 

"But you were a junkie...sorry."

 

"Simple fact.  Still am and besides.  You were slightly married?"

 

"Yeah.   Sooo...how is this going to work? Exactly?  This thing?  Who will know?"

 

Sherlock's jaw tightened as he sucked air deeply through his nostrils. "If we want it to work.  We will have to play it as private but not a secret.  We cannot announce it, but those who discover it...they will have to be addressed individually.  You were lonely...I was dazzled by yourr...."

 

"Yes?" Lestrade let him swing for a moment, then rescued him, "fulfillment of your Daddy issues?"

 

"Oh god...fine.  Whatever you want.   Anyway...we have to make John figure it out so we will have to be fairly obvious...because it will take John believing for Mycroft to really believe it.  We will have to stay in character at all times...my brother has eyes everywhere too. Make sure you are free Saturday...and most of the morning on Sunday...." 

 

"Okay? Dare I ask?"

 

"Our first sleep over...complete with sound effects...he may not have cameras. But let us assume for now that your flat is bugged.   We will try it out tonight.  See how long it takes him. "

 

Lestrade scratched his neck nervously, "You know, this is going to make a few people very cross."

 

Sherlock blinked into a mischievous smile.  "Yes, that is the fun part.  Don't worry, John only has a really bad temper with me."

 

"And the old DCS and three suspects...and that guy at the--"

 

"He will not hit you."

 

Greg laughed and said, "Not worried about Watson, you berk.  Much more concerned about Donovan."

 

Sherlock stopped talking and went still. "Ohhh....fair point that.   I better speak to Molly in person as well...she delivers a surprisingly forceful slap when she is angry."

 

"What did you do this time?" Greg asked.

 

"Told her I loved her.  And it is unfortunately completely true. " his brows furrowed.  "I take an unheard of amount of abuse in morgues."   

 

"John getting help with....you know?"

 

"I think so.   Unless this one is mad too...who knows.  He...doesn't talk to me...about that sort of thing.  Not anymore." Sherlock shrugged as they arrived back at Bart's to retrieve Greg's car.  

 

"Thank you.   Do not forget.  Use my real name? Yes?"

 

"Anything you say.  See you later, George." Sherlock said innocently before his eyes twinkled and he winked.

 

"Tosser." Greg said definitively but with a small kiss blown after.    

 

He carried his pile of treasure around to his car.  The CCTV cameras locked onto him at once and he sighed happily.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Greg stopped by the office on his way home. He got a text from Sherlock to bring home cases and they would work on them during dinner. Greg sighed trying to think what he had at the flat that he could euphemistically ascribe as date food. He stopped at Sainsbury's on the way home. Thank God for ready meals.

Sherlock greeted him at his door and Greg unloaded his car. Sherlock took the clothing in and actually hung it up properly before announcing he had brought fish and chips.

They did not discuss the fake relationship but actually worked on the cases. Sherlock tossed them aside in frustration.

"Not getting anywhere. Did not figure we could. Always worthwhile to try." Greg said easily.

"Is it?" Sherlock got up and stood at the window noting only fourteen of the cameras were directed at him. He offered Greg the tiniest wink and smile.

Greg nodded, understanding at once.

"Sure it is. I mean every case has a solution. Even if we never find it, it still matters to someone."

"Not the cases. Idiot. Does any of this matter? Any of it? Does this day matter? Or the next?" Sherlock seemed like he was truly despondent.

"You know they do. Sherlock. Course they matter. Hasn't been that bad of a day has it? I thought we had a pretty good one myself." Greg returned.

"It was fine. Today was actually one of the best I've had in ages, you know? But now it is time for me to go home and how long will it be before the next ... good day? " Sherlock sighed deeply and picked at a spot on the window.

Greg shrugged and took their plates into the kitchen. From there he said quietly, "As many as it takes. No other choice but to ride the ride you get. What's with you? "

" Doesn't matter. Nothing's wrong and nothing matters and before you even start I am fine. No track...no new track marks. " Sherlock turned his back to the window and leaned against the glass, face prompting Greg to carry on.

"Don't give me that. I am no you, but I can see when a friend is hurting. Tell me?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I do!"

Sherlock snorted and seemed evasive. "I need to go."

"You leave now and I will call him," Greg threatened.

"Of course. You would use any excuse to call him. You think I don't know? I do know. "

"Know what?"

Sherlock nodded. "How you feel. About my bloody brother? Care to deny it?"

Greg stood silently horrified. This was not what he'd expected at all.

Sherlock stood at his full height and mouthed 'I'm sorry. Trust me '.

Greg nodded.

"No, you can't deny it because it is true. You have watched him and catered to him for years now. Waiting for him to notice you. What a joke. Do you know what he calls normal people? His goldfish. Put them in a bowl... feed them once in a while and then flush them down the toilet when they are no longer useful. He is not worth your heart. He isn't. Even if he were to climb down from his great Tower of Babel long enough to notice you for a second he would ruin you and discard you the second he stopped being amused by you. It would destroy you. Then where will I be?"

"You have John. " Greg challenged.

"Ohhhhhhh, good one. You too? You know better. Where's John? Oh sure he shows up for the easy parts now and again or when he needs a punching bag. But he does not give a damned about me. You know what he told me? He said I should ..."

"Go on, Sherlock. Tell me." Greg's eyes were wide with sympathy.

Sherlock let his eyes fill with tears and he choked slightly as he said, "He said....he...said I should be.. with her. The Woman. Irene. She actually probably cares more for me than he does and at least there is always the bonus possibility that she will manage to get me killed or sell my life to the highest bidder. That is what he imagines will make me happy though the getting killed part is rather attractive. I have died for him. I would tonight. And it will never matter. Do you see? Nothing I will ever do will ever matter to anyone. Not even you?"

"That's not true. Sherlock please tell me you do not believe that in your heart. Please. I could not stand to think..," Lestrade has to take a deep breath. This is getting far more real than he expected.

"He would have beaten me to death you know. And I would have let him. "

Lestrade cannot stop his own eyes from stinging. "Stop. We are done with this. That is not true." Greg means the act is over he cannot tell real from fake.

Sherlock smiles and starts to put on his coat. " The truth is a little bit hard to deal with , isn't it Greg? Funny, nobody wants to deal with mine. "   
"I don't have any idea what to say except please don't leave. I am sincerely afraid for you right now. " Greg is not acting. He is terrified.

"I bought the clothes for you because I wanted you to see yourself the way I have always seen you. No strings attached. " Sherlock is adjusting his collar and tucking his scarf in and he turns to leave. "Call him if you want. He will not find me."

Greg moves forward and blocks the door with a roar. "You are not going anywhere, Sunshine. I have no idea what is going on in that head of yours but I can still stop you if I have to. "

Sherlock leans in and whispers, "You are doing great now when we get to the window, there will be a hug and possibly a kiss. Play it as stunned but interested. "

Lestrade feels pure relief flood through him and some anger. The bastard was acting, of course he was, just a show. "Do not try me" he growled with a fair bit of truth to it.

Sherlock walks toward the window. "I have used these silly glass covered holes as exits. Irene loves windows, though there is usually more grace to her and less broken glass."

Lestrade moves over to the window. "Anything you do, to my window I do to your violin. "

Sherlock is actually angry now. "Not if you care so much for breathing."

"I can arrest you."

"Is that the best you can do? It is so easy. Why can't you see?" Sherlock bows his head and waits.

"See what?"

"They do not want us. And they never will. But we could have... something."

Greg leans back. "What. Me? Are you mad? Thought I was not good enough for your brother?"

"No, Gregory Hershel Lestrade, my brother is not good enough for you." Sherlock says kindly and leans over and kisses his cheek.

"Sherlock...I don't know what to say"

"Say you will think about it. Say nothing. Say you will let me leave with the smallest spark of hope that, tomorrow will be something better?"

Greg looks at his face for a few heartbeats before he answers. "Yeah. Yeah okay. We will talk...just talk mind you. But we will talk. You going to be okay if I let you out there?"

"Yes."

"Swear to me."

"Yes."

"On the life of your violin?"

Sherlock refuses to answer but bends down and just touches his lips to Greg's. "Good enough?"

Greg grins. "You know, that is the way Demons do it. Seal the deal with a kiss. Makes me a bit nervous".

Sherlock laughed as he moved toward the pavement and tossed over his shoulder, "Then my advice is never kiss my brother or any of his demons...I mean minions....I mean employees ". He waves and heads into the night.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

  
The chatter at NSY that morning was mostly about Greg. When he walked into the office looking like a new man, several people not only gapped at him, some wolf whistled. He smiled and just made for his office acting like it was nothing.

It was Sally who chimed in first. "You got court today? "

"Nope."

"Giving a presentation? School thing or something?"

"Nope."

She looked like she knew something nobody else did. "Cutting out early again? Somebody getting married?"

"Nope."

She grumbled slightly then guessed, "Date? You do don't you. That's a hell of a suit. She must be something very special."

"Maybe. Huntsman. He. And yes... could be if I want. Early days. ".

"He?" She squeaked.

Lestrade looked up from his morning call sheet and gave her a look,"Is this actually any of your business?"

"No. Sorry. Just thought you were...bit of a birdwatcher... never knew..."

"That I am so open minded and yet don't need a pride flag or anyone's opinion about who I am?" He cautioned.

"Sorry, boss. Not meaning it like that. Happy for you. Better treat you like gold. Suit looks very nice. "She backtracked and softened.

"That is debatable. Bit of a dick, or so I have been told."

"Anybody I know?" She asked with a small smile.

"Not ready to go full commando yet. If it happens to work out, we will see. Now we got any other stuff for the morning meet and greet or is this good to go?" He had enough crap to remember without dealing with this now.

Sally filled him in on the activities he needed to review from the night before. When he stood up at the meeting and gave his updates he honestly felt like a new man in his posh suit. It surprised him how people treated him differently. There were no labels on the thing, yet everyone listened to him more carefully and seemed nicer for some reason.

Sherlock showed up just at his lunch break. Lestrade took off and not one person blinked at it. They smiled in the lift feeling naughty at pulling anything over on all the oblivious detectives.

Sherlock waited until they were in the cafe before he leaned in and whispered "Sorry about last night. Had to go for believable."

Greg smiled. "You... no wait. Do not blow all that off. It was a little bit closer to true than you want to admit. Is that really how you feel about John? That he has abandoned you?"

Sherlock made a face and tried to give a thoughtful answer. "That part. It is probably true. Time will have to tell. Some of the messy bits were simple facts. I have very little hope this venture will be a successful endeavor for me. But I do have great hope for you because most of what I said about Mycroft was rubbish. When he loves. He loves very deeply. I am obviously not a stellar example but he has... weathered my hurricanes. That alone should recommend him. But, remember last night was about me trying to convince you that I have value. He will believe because that is what he thinks I think of him. "

Lestrade listened carefully. He ask, "You said you are afraid this won't work for John. But you are masterminding all this crap. Fix your brother. Help me. What about you. When this ends. Why put yourself through this if you have so little faith in the plan?"

Sherlock looked away and watched a couple find a table. "Two days ago, if I had let myself dwell on things I said last night... it would have. Been a danger night as Mycroft calls them. Today I have a star. One single point of light. That is more than I usually have. "

Greg sits back far away. "Cases?"

"I am not... okay sometimes. I drive you mad but... "He did not finish the sentence. "I asked John to move back in. "

Lestrade waited. "And?"

"He very kindly explained that he could not. "

"Ever?"

"Sherlock"

"I believe that is what he means. "

"That bastard. " Greg tapped his empty cup on the table.

Sherlock stood, took both cups and Greg got a text.

[Looking for Sherlock. He with you? JW]

[Having lunch with him now.DIG]

[For a case? JW]

[Just tossing some ideas about some we had no Joy on in the past.DIG].

[He is ignoring me. Just checking JW].

Sherlock returned and placed Greg's tea in front of him and took his seat. "Ordered us chips"

"John text me."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Says you're ignoring him?"

"I am dating someone. My new boyfriend does not approve."

Lestrade grinned. "Okay. You have your magic, I have mine." Lestrade sent a text and showed it to Sherlock.

[You free tonight? Pub? Actually need to talk to you and it needs to be in person. DIG]

"What are you doing?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Nothing gets my goat like one of Linda's wankers asking to be friends even though it is none of my business any more. If there is a jealous bone in his body this will be pure pain and he has to take it because I am being the bigger person by pretending he has an opinion. Not only that? But you invite him to crime scenes and then send him off with an offhand invite to the local. He will hate his life. ".

New respect dawned in Sherlock eyes. "Do they teach passive aggressive in policeman school?"

"As a matter of fact you would be shocked at what they do teach. ".

[Yeah. Sounds good. Except now from the in person remark I am worried. Is he... ok?JW]

[no worries. Personal. Just need advice. Not medical either before you ask.DIG]

[cheers then. 7ish. The Black Cat? JW]

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

  
Thursday was quiz night down the local and so John sat in the upstairs where it was quiet. He did a double take when Greg walked in and his mouth was still hanging open though it had a smile somehow involved by the time Greg ordered and sat.

"Got you a spare. " He said carefully sliding the glass next to John's half gone beer.

"Look at you? Did Mycroft ...I don't know, play ken doll? Jesus this is fantastic. Good nick, obviously." John reached out to touch.

Greg pulled his arm away. "Are your hands clean?" He said with mock seriousness.

John held them out for inspection. "Doctor. It is wired into the hard drive before breathing. Where did you get this? " John reached again and touched the arm. "Oh. That is ...."

The DI grinned sheepishly and sat softly. "Yeah. It really...really is. Didn't eat all day but for some chips. Bit of mustard just not worth a months salary. "

"Seriously where did you get this? Was it discounted? There're bullet holes I didn't notice? "

"Picked up yesterday at little hole in the wall number eleven Savile."

John looked impressed. "You picking up side jobs from Mycroft... seriously that will get you killed."

Lestrade smirked and sipped his beer. "No faster than my day job and I have to imagine it would pay much better. No. I am middle aged. Divorced. No kids. Just figured why not. Said it would last a lifetime and hell ...I just hope it was a bargain and not a splurge. But either way it was worth it. "

"Cheers. I wish I had thought of that before I had Rosie...wouldn't last five minutes now."

"Yeah, but you know in the long run, you're the lucky one."

"To baby spit and looking forward to wearing the outfit I put on the first round in the morning" John said with a grin.

"Come on. Pony up the pictures. You know you got em." Greg invited.

John tucked his phone away after Greg had paid homage to the beauty of young Watson. He raked his finger across his glass as if waiting to hear bad news. "So...you needed to talk?"

Lestrade nodded. "I have a problem. Two friends and I always thought they were made for each other. Love them both dearly. Time seems to have pulled them apart. I have been seeing one of them and it is getting to be more than friends. A lot more. What do I say. To the other one?"

"You cannot date a mate's mate. Not if you want to keep them both. How more is more?" John asked kindly.

"I think it may be a pretty big deal. It is to me at least. They still work together. But how long do you wait to see if they ever get their shit together when someone says they want you?."

John took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Then you have to take it. You have to go for it. Time is so bloody short. You snooze you lose. You can try to stay on good terms but in the end if they wanted your friend then they should have paid attention to her. All is fair. You know?"

"It is him actually. I want him."

"You... oh." John frowned. "You mean you are."

"Bi... yeah. Just like you " Greg offered with a knowing smirk.

"How did you..."

"Detective, yeah? At your wedding? Saw you and your old commanding officer didn't I? "

"Right. Good. Look. I don't... errrmm . My round?" John grabbed the glasses and escaped.

Greg smiled like he had all night and just waited. John returned with full beers but drank almost half of his before setting his glass down. Greg just waited in silence.

"I don't talk about James. I mean war stuff. But not the other. "

"Yeah okay. Then there was Sherlock."

John leaned in and spoke a little too loud, "Sherlock and I were not together. Okay? We were never a couple. Not ever. Got it?"

Lestrade tapped his fingers on the table not meeting John's eyes. "You could have been."

"Nope. He can't. He does not understand love. Does not feel that. Wants nothing to do with sex. He is what he is Greg and I can care about him until the rivers run dry and he... would neither notice or care? "

"Why do you say that?"

John smiled his most irritated smile of condescending patience. "Oh let's see. He lies all the time. About everything. He faked a relationship with Janine and did not care for a second that he hurt her. Didn't even blip on his radar. I had to be the one who explained it to her. "

"Yeah. I remember that time. The one where he was dead on the table. Shot by your wife. While you broke up with his fiancé without even asking him. I do recall". Greg said quietly but with firmness.

John glared at him. "For two years. He was dead. Remember that too? Remembering that one night? That one night you caught me? There were lots of nights you did not catch me and ... so many of them were a ... hmmmmn... remember those? I fell too. Thank him."

"He saved our lives. You sound like you would have preferred he didn't come back."

John chewed his lip and slammed his fist on the table. People looked around as he said through gritted teeth. "Do not ever say that to me again. Not ever. Do not imply it. How can you even think that? Of course I am glad he lived . But he did not have to put me through all of that. That was a choice. Other people knew. "

Lestrade never flinched at John's outburst. But when he finished he leaned in and let his velociraptor cop smile meet Captain Watson's death smile. His voice was low and calm, almost friendly' "That is very good Glad you are angry about that. I really am. Because now you listen Doctor. You ever lay a hand on him again, I will not protect you. You ever hurt him like that again and we are going to have a major problem. See I know him. And he did not fight back. He would have curled up on that morgue floor and let you kick him to death. The poor bastard, may be lost, may be off his tits, may be the most hellish monster in the world. But you will not touch him. Got it? If it had been the first time ... but it wasn't. You hear me?"

John finished his beer in two gulps and stood up from the table tossing two fivers on the table and putting his jacket on. Greg looked up and asked softly, "You care about him? You care at all?"

John snorted and Lestrade stood up and grabbed his arm. "Hold up just a second"

"Get your hand off me" John said low and more dangerous than Greg had ever imagined. John smiled and it was not a pleasant smile.

"Just one more thing then you can go. You need to hear it from me. You told me to go for it and I am going to take that advice. "

"Good for you. Now let go."

"Except the bloke I am seeing... it's Sherlock. I felt so guilty. Wanted your blessing. Guess I got it." Lestrade watched the dance of emotions shift across John's face as what Greg just said sunk in.

He registered the shift in weight and quickly added before John swung, "If you do, it will be jail time. Second offense, chinning a copper. Mycroft won't be there to get you out of this one. "

John stood down and looked up at Greg, "Don't flatter yourself. You're not worth it ."

John took two steps then spun back around. "He is going to eat you alive and spit you out. Just like he did me. Just remember that a couple years down the road. I warned you. Just like Sally warned me."

John walked out and Greg picked up the glasses and the cash. Went to the landlord and ordered two glasses of Scotch.

A few minutes later a hand reached out for the second glass.

Greg sighed and said, "I am so sorry."

"No reason to be. You were brilliant. ". An earpiece landed on the bar next to the other glass.

"Sherlock. It was not...you should have never heard some of that. " Greg looked up at him and Sherlock was grinning as if he was having the best time in the world. "What are you grinning about?"

"Trying to decide if when I eat you alive if I should use Malt vinegar or hollandaise sauce."

"Charming." Greg said taking small sip of the Tobermory.

Sherlock leaned in and whispered, "Someday I want you to tell him. I never spit. I always swallow. "

Greg spilt Tobermory all over his new suit.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

  
It was almost noon before Sally hovered by Greg's door, arms crossed, studying her Guv.

"Another new suit. "

"You should be a detective."

"Come on. You are killing me. You come into some money?"

"Nope. Just a kept man. "

"You got a posh bloke then?"

"Cannot get much more posh." Greg looked up from his desk.

"I need a hint," she asked with a smirk.

Lestrade grinned. "You need a life, Sally."

She snickered. "You told him about Freak yet? How he gets? How every time you have plans he has some crisis?"

"In all fairness, we usually make an arrest when he does have a crisis. That is sort of my job and all. And don't call him that. "

"He also tends to get you in trouble. Leave you cleaning up his public relations nightmares and texts you seven hundred times a day. So what's he think of him?"

"I can honesty say he has no problem with him at all."

"Has he met him? Or is he just being polite to get into your expensive trousers?"

"They are quite well acquainted, and he can get in my trousers any time he likes, because he bought them for me in the first place. "

Sally smiled, eyes twinkling. "So what was your price? Just curious. You're pretty alright. Don't sell yourself too cheaply"

Greg smiled, "The clothing had no strings, in fact. The thoughts behind them got me a bit wobbly. He wanted everyone else to see me as he does."

"God and he is bloody romantic too. That's nice, Greg. Truly happy for you."

"Ta."

  
"Gets along with himself... huh. Well. That only leaves one person in all the universe. John Watson isn't posh. ".

"Not dating, John. But you are getting warmer " Greg teases as he watches Sherlock sneak up behind her.

"If you tell me you are dating freak, I am going to get chudder all over your suit." She laughed, thinking she has made a funny joke.

"You mean you would not approve?"Lestrade takes out his phone and begins recording.

"God no. Doesn't bear even considering. Got to be mad to even--"

 

A deep booming voice behind her made Sally jump reflexively.

"Hello Sally, if you could just finish your little snoop session. I would really like to take my boyfriend out to lunch."

A look of horror bloomed on her face. "No." She turned and Sherlock gave her a completely fake smile. Her head swiveled back toward Greg with the same look on her face as when you tell a victim's family that their loved one has just been brutally murdered. "Are you out of your bloody mind? You cannot be serious. "

Sherlock moved around her and Greg kept recording Sally as Sherlock leaned in and gently kissed Lestrade as if they had done it a hundred times.

"Oh dear God. I have died and gone to hell. Yuck. My eyes are burning!" Sally said.

She exited the office, and somewhere out in the bullpen she announced. "Lestrade is dating the Freak. Save yourselves!"

"Well. Hope you were ready to out. Because she just spoiled our big surprise ." Greg teased as he saved the video.

Sherlock winced and said with regret, "Probably shouldn't have done that. "

"It's fine. Hey take a look at this while you are here." Greg offered, getting up from his desk. "They said it was an open and shut suicide. The wife says he had been threatening to off himself for years. That is backed up by his records. But it just feels off to me. Take a peep. I will get us some tea."

Three hours later, they not only have their first lead on the case, they have a suspect in under caution with a very frustrated lawyer frantically making calls. Sherlock pointed out that if the the suicide were in fact suicide that he would have hand written his note.

"Look at his desk, Greg. What do you see? Look at the wall behind his desk. Fountain pens. He collected these. They were precious to him. Expensive ones, antiquities too but not only to look at, this man has a hundred and twenty-seven year old Waterman, still functioning and used every day. This is his death. He would never type something as important as his suicide note. " Sherlock studied the photos, tilting his head. "No. Check the fingerprints on the office computer. He did not type that note and if he did not do it, whoever did was the last person on his computer."

"Computer was wiped clean."

"Then it obviously has to be a murder, doesn't it? Who types a note then does the dusting? You have a case. Very good, Detective Inspector."

They skipped lunch. Sherlock left once the boring paperwork mountain began to take Greg's attention and it was after seven when Greg tiredly left the rest for Monday. On a whim he went to Baker Street. He did not knock, he never had, but he had long ago made a habit of walking softly up the stairs because eavesdropping was one of his many talents.

He heard voices up the stairs and moved even more softly.

"Oh really? And when were you going to tell me? I had to hear it from him. "

"What difference does that make? Wasn't it you who told me having sex would complete me?"

"That is not what I said and you know it. What I want you to tell me is why Lestrade of all the bloody people in London?"

"Why not? Why would you object to him?"

"You cannot even remember his name! "

"That is hardly a reason not to shag him. You are a brilliant example of that, you have to admit. Besides, who else would I see for this sort of sentimental debasement? The Woman, you said. Let me make this perfectly clear to you, because after all this time, you still keep cocking it up, John, and it makes me wonder. I am gay. I have always been gay and always will be."

"You never told me." John said as if his heart were breaking.

"You never asked. And I did tell you. The night after we met. Mrs. Hudson told you. Angelo told you. My brother told you. And you told each one of them that you were not gay. "

"This is not about--"

 

"Do you know when I realized you were actually aware of your heterosexual only fantasies? I always thought you just did not know, did not accept who you were. But then there was your wedding. My own mind's delusional creation was forever shattered on that day. Your new Spouse pointed out the error of my deductions. Your face when you looked at him. A person so important to you, yet I had never even heard a whisper of his name. Not one word."

John heaved a sigh and sniffed. "You always do this. You twist everything. This is not about me. Have you even thought this through? Have you? You're the great Sherlock Holmes, but you cannot see. "

"What can I not see? Do tell, this ought to be oh so enlightening." Sherlock flopped into his chair and John took his place in his chair.

John's voice became almost gentle, "What happens when this falls apart and it will. I would bet my life on it. Because you are you and your whole fucking world hinges on your supply of distraction. Cases. Who is your mainline supplier, supporter, and all around giver of puzzles? The second you destroy him, you destroy you as well. Do you get that? "

"Ohhh. You mean you are worried about me now. Well, if that happens then there are other ways of obtaining cases. "

"You would rather be dead than work for Mycroft. We both know that much. This is me Sherlock. You are flitting from one self destructive path to the next. You can pretend all you want. But we both know... what you are really doing?"

"Oh do we? I am at the edge of my seat. Please do walk me through your version of my life?"

"I think you know exactly what I am saying. I may be wrong but when this blows up in your faces, it is going to be ugly. He is a good man, Sherlock, and he cares about you. God, I know he does for a fact. That is why you cannot do this. You won't be friends after. You know, I think he depends on you as much as you do him."

"You and Sarah are still friends. You even worked together afterwards. This is no different. He has seen me at my darkest. You underestimate his strength."

John thought for a moment. "Yeah, maybe I do. This is none of my business, I suppose. Did he say anything about meeting me in the pub last night?"

"A little. Said it did not go as well as he had hoped."

"I was probably a bit of an arsehole. I do not think he will be letting me on any crime scenes any time soon."

"It will all be fine, John."

Lestrade tapped the door. "Am I interrupting anything?"

Sherlock's face at once morphed into pure joy. "You got that wrapped up already? Splendid. I did not expect you until later."

Greg gave a nod to John and taking his cue from Sherlock earlier he came forward and leaned over to give Sherlock a quick hello kiss. Sherlock reached up and pulled Greg down for a more intimate snog. Sherlock moaned softly and John shot up from his chair like it had given him a painful electric shock.

"Okay. Well. I need to be... someplace...anywhere but here, soooo I will just...".

Greg looked up and grinned. "Don't rush off on my account. No hard feelings. I could make us tea?"

John was scrambling for his coat and keys as if he was headed to a crime scene. "Yeah, Ta. Same. Need to... yeah... Rosie. Sitter has early class..."

Sherlock took Greg's hand in his and kissed it then began fellating one of Greg's fingers just as John looked over to wave a goodbye. There was an eye widening and deflation and a whispered, "Oh Christ... I did not need to see that...." as he ran and tripped down the stairs.

The second the outer door slammed Sherlock was out of his chair and at the window in a single leap.

Greg looked at his hand in something of a daze. "Holy hell. That was a bit not good.. subjectively."

Sherlock snickered. "Take a look? "

Greg glanced down into Baker Street just in time to see John Watson disappear into a long black Jaguar.

"Is that good or bad?" Greg wondered out loud.

Sherlock whispered dramatically "It is very good. Our dragon has just raised his head. ".

"What do we do now?"

Sherlock took Greg by the hand and dragged him toward the bedroom and slammed the door.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Lestrade stood frozen in the middle of Sherlock's sanctuary. He was admittedly reeling from the vision of the consulting detective's lips wrapped around his finger. Now, he had been dragged into the bedroom and even if this were a ruse, his cock was kicking up and letting him know that it too was well fooled by the display. He tried to breathe through it, but In another second or two it was going to become embarrassingly dreadful.

Sherlock had taken off his shoes and was working on rearranging the pillows on his bed. The image was doing things to the older man's head. Lestrade may be in love with another man but this one was here and he had been lonely for at least a hundred years. All but the first two years of his marriage had been lonely.

Sherlock stood and glanced at Greg, doing a double take and his eyes flicking down for a millisecond. Sherlock blushed and smiled as if he were slightly pleased with himself. But he said nothing as he dug through his clothing drawers and found a pair of trackie bottoms and an old tee shirt.

"May as well get comfortable. We are going to be here a while." He handed Greg a heavy wooden hanger and the clothing. "Loo is right there. Hang up the suit."

Greg nodded and quickly left and closed the door. He stood in the small room and looked around. He carefully disrobed and his knob never gave a hint of willingness to behave. Shower it was. He stood in the hot water and considered his options. Would it really be such a tormented life if this was a little real?

Feeling much more calm when he returned to the bedroom, he hung his suit in Sherlock's wardrobe. Sherlock was propped up on one side of the bed, his laptop on a pillow on his lap. He had also taken the opportunity to change into his own version of comfortable clothes. He looked much smaller and far less intimidating in his posh old dressing gown and a tee shirt.

"Just in time. Want to see what our beloveds have to say about us? "

Greg frowned. He crawled into the other side of the bed and sat so he could see the screen. "What is this? Jesus Sherlock. You can't bug Him. It..isn't that like some kind of ... treason or something? "

"Mycroft and I play many games. This is one of them. He spies on me, and I on him. Though he is usually boring. I keep them off and his wiring hides their frequency. When his sweeps are done, they can only be detected if they are in use. We have one rule and that is bedrooms and water closets are off limits. I plant little dud bugs from time to time so he thinks I am still trying. These are out of date but still functional because he has never found them. "

They watched the feed and Lestrade smirked at Mycroft adjusting his tie and checking his teeth in the mirror. Preening for his soon to be delivered captive. He even splashed on fresh cologne and carefully combed his hair. He saw the headlights play light shadows on his wall and hurried over to his desk, first sitting down, then changing his mind and going to the front of his desk and resting against it smoothing his trousers and picking up a file as the doorbell rang. A butler, bodyguard, minion person answered the door and showed John in on one side of the screen. Mycroft popped his neck and took a deep breath on the other.

"What the...?"

Sherlock giggled and rolled his eyes. "Oh please, you didn't think he just happened to mysteriously look perfect at all times, did you? He merchandises his dramatics. He shows off his competence as I showcase my deductions ."

Greg shook his head, "You have just crushed my faith in all things. I had no idea."

  
"There is actually an art to this, you know? Watch now. John will take a few steps into the room. Pause. Wait to be noticed. See that. He feigns surprised pleasure as if it is an unexpected social call. It puts people at ease. They are more likely to cooperate if you make them think you like them... that you genuinely enjoy their company. Willing to pause from your important things just for delightful them. Now, John. He does not see through it entirely, but his soldier training and years of being a doctor have made him somewhat immune to Mycroft's social signals. Watch. He does not take the seat he was directed to. Heads straight to the wet bar. Signalling to Mycroft that he is perfectly at ease and refusing to acknowledge that home team advantage. He even pours my brother a glass of his own liquor as both a peace offering and to signal that they are equals and he is not the better of John."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, impressed. "Elaborated pissing contest. How do you do that?"

Sherlock glanced away from the screen and right back. "Later. Shhh!"

John takes a small nip of the Scotch and his face goes slack with pleasure. "Mycroft, this is not just scotch. This is a liquid orgasm. Do I even want to know how much this costs?"

Mycroft grins sheepishly, pleased by the compliment and relishing his own sip. "You probably would not drink it if you did, John. You could feed a small family for six months and knowing you, you would insist I do so. "

"I can be a bit of a brat that way . Starving children are so inconsiderate."

Mycroft sets his glass down and turns away to stare Byronicly out the window, using the reflective glass to keep John's eye contact. "I am sure you are aware that we have a... situation. One sadly of our own making. "

John takes another sip and tilts his head, "Situation? No we do not have a situation. What we do have is a patience bomb about to be locked on and it is going to blow up in our faces. That is what we have."

Mycroft studies John. "You are right. They cannot be. "

"Too late. They already are. I barely escaped from the pawing . When I left, Sherlock was hungry and Greg looked like pudding."

"You are saying we should give up?"

"I am saying it is none of our business. Not really." His pursed lips proved he was not quite of the same mind, no matter what he said.

"I had hoped I could persuade you to be reasonable."

John looked like a dog attempting to read mathematics. "You don't approve then?"

"Of course I don't Approve!" Mycroft roared.

  
"Whoooooeee. Don't..."

Mycroft regained his composure and offered a mumbled sort of apology. John stood having a brain aneurism from the many facial contortions displayed.

Sherlock leaned forward and said softly, "uuhhhhooohhhh, gave yourself away there, My. Come on John. You can do it."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "You do know you are mad, right? Like clinically..."

"Yup. Now, Shhhh. I think he's got it..."

John Watson could not figure out what set Mycroft off. Suddenly, his mind locked on a single answer. "You are jealous. That is what this is. Isn't it? You...are..."

Mycroft straitened to his most formidable indignant posture. "In love with Gregory Lestrade. Yes of course, you would find that amusing. At least I can admit it. What about you? From your private habits whilst living with my brother compared to your latest data, I am shocked you have left him unbedded this long."

John looked up over his glass and burst out laughing. "Oh my God. Mycroft do you actually know how often I do or do not wank? Is it in my file? Christ. I love Holmes logic."

Mycroft waited for his outburst to calm. His face was pained. "It is what I do, John...I must have as much data..."

  
"You know if I get off, but didn't think to warn me I was dating and marrying a bloody assassin.... and that was not the only time. Why did you not give me a heads up that I shagged your bloody mental sister? I told Sherlock it was just texting to see if he actually knew and corrected me...Sherlock had no idea. So just stop this all knowing, all omnipresent master of the Universe routine. Hmmm? How about that?"

  
"John, I--"

"You're not a God. You are just one of us! Because you let your psychotic sister get in my head and in my life and we are never going to know for sure if I am unjumbled up here or if I will come apart someday and beat him... to death this time. You know what Greg told me, last night? He told me that if I had not been pulled off, I might have killed him and he would have let me. " John gasps, holding in tears, then shores up his will to continue, voice the rasp of throat cancer, "Sherlock would have let me...and you know the worst part. I think Greg was telling me the truth."

Mycroft had lost his walls and his protective masks were offline. He stood silently, mouth agape and horrified by the man before him.

John swallowed the rest of his whisky and he hung his head in shame. "You do understand, don't you? I am not abandoning him. The distance is for him. God yes I love him and it is pure torture to have to see him... falling in love with someone else when I never even knew he... could love anyone. My God, I would have done anything. Right or wrong. I would not have cared. And now. Now, I have nothing left to give. I can protect him from some things, but this is the only way to keep him safe from me. It is going to kill me... at some point. I know it is. Love him and kill him or let him love someone else and when they implode and the cases dry up, watch him die of boredom. Catch 22 isn't it?"

John threw the glass as hard as he could. It dissolved into a mist of shards and they clicked upon the marble floor like raindrops hissing as they skittered at the end.

Mycroft closed his mouth and swallowed ,his eyes tracking the path of the crystal and returning to the man before him.

"I hope to God they make it. I was livid and jealous and blind with the rage I felt. I just sat at his flat and begged him to .. not date Greg. And part of that is that I know if he is free, then I could...shit. Shit shit." His face scrunched up and then he shivered slightly and his rage steadied him enough to continue. "But, I love him more than life. And Greg is a damned fine man. I have to let him go. I have to. And you know what else? I wish every bloody day that Mary had caught me cheating on her and murdered me for it. Because if she had, I know she would have gotten away with it and I would never have had to survive this."

John was silent then he went back to the bar and poured a new glass full. He took two large gulps and made an ahhh sound of appreciation. His voice took on it's normally sassy tone and he asked, "So. You and Sherlock. In love with the same bit of rough. That is going to be one hell of a show. Does Lestrade know how you feel?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock who had disappeared into his mind palace. Face calm and absent, he had a single tear rolling down his face.

"Turn it off. Sherlock turn it off. This is private and I don't want to see this " Greg let out a frustrated sigh and reached over and shut the laptop. Sherlock still had not moved or noticed.

Greg stretched out and made himself comfortable. Sherlock sat still hardly blinking. It reminded Greg far too much of the sister in that place. Touch starved for human contact and doomed to boredom. Greg reached out and guided Sherlock to lie back against his shoulder as he had years ago when he had watched over him through withdrawal.

Sherlock did not resist. Greg let his fingers slide through the curls and eventually Sherlock's eyes closed to the sound of soft snoring.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock awoke to the smell of a clean armpit and the unpleasant odour of tooth decay. He rolled slightly and the movement woke his companion. Lestrade smiled sheepishly sleepy and he looked younger than he normally did.

"Hello you."

"You snore. And you should make a dentist appointment. You have a cavity or a loose crown. "

"Yeah? Well you talk in your sleep to John and are like sleeping with a wiggly heating pad." He reached out fondly and pushed a curl off Sherlock's forehead. "Best nights sleep I've had in years "

Sherlock grinned. "Me too, theoretically."

Lestrade laughed at the statement and asked, "How is it a theory?"

"I have not had one in about four and a half years . So therefore without something to compare it to, status as the best is honorary rather than a placement definitive, making it theoretically the best when it is singular." Sherlock rose during this analysis of phrase usage and ruffled his hair into wild heathen as he prepared to head to the sitting room adding as he left. "Do look as rumpled as possible. My brother will be here and if you can manage it, a well timed grimace as you sit down will be a lovely touch."

"You're an utter menace!" Lestrade called to Sherlock's back.

He had just got his feet on the floor and had decided a trip to the loo was the first business of the day when Sherlock came barrelling into the bedroom.

"Get dressed. He is not here. We are going to Mycroft's. Something must be wrong. ".

"Wait, what? Why do you say that. It is Saturday, probably just sleeping. It is only half seven. "

"You're not going to start doubting me now, just because you're my boyfriend, are you?"

Lestrade chuckled and stood with a frown and popped several joints in a practiced stretch that was a ballet of long healed injuries. " Use your little toys to double check. I will get myself sorted and I need good coffee before I can deal with any of you barmy nutters," he said, but there was a fondness to his words under the mock exasperated tone.

Sherlock went to his laptop and began trying to reestablish his feeds. "There are clean toothbrushes in the drawer beside the vanity, please make use of one, in case we need to kiss. "

"Cheers, sorry my breath isn't roses in the morning. Taking a shower, and there better be coffee when I get out."

"Why, you are perfectly clean, and you showered last...oh... that is a surprising frequency considering your age and..."

"Shut up. Coffee. Now." Lestrade stomped around the bed and closed the ensuite door.

When he got out of the shower, Greg realised he left his suit in the wardrobe. He had tossed his borrowed clothing on the floor and it was sopping wet. He had to exit in a towel.

Rather than play blushing teen he simply did his best at some measure of modesty while he quickly dressed. "So. Found anything out?"

"No. He is on alert for some reason. He has instituted a scrambler."

"You mean like we use?"

Lestrade caught Sherlock's eyes wandering up his backside in the wardrobe mirror.

"Yes, but much more powerful. My brother has gone dark. Nothing from Anthea either. Speedy's has coffee and croissants ready when you want to go pick them up. I am ...having a shower."

"Look, I have been thinking. Maybe we should just tell them?"

Sherlock looked mortified. "What? No."

  
"This game we are playing. It isn't much fun any more. They are in pain. We are adding to it. It's cruel. Especially to your John."

"Yes. It is. But it is also what we have to do to make them see. If we tell them, we will end up losing. First they will never trust us but equally important, our back up plan... this small tentacle of faith between us...will be suspect for the rest of our days. No. It has to play out. I know how to fix John, but he will not trust me until he has no options and no hope left to feed his blustery 'I am fine' proclamations." Sherlock stood and gave Lestrade another once over.

"Alright. If you say so. Just try not to break your toys entirely. I may be your back up plan, but thanks for letting me know ... it is not just, one sided," Lestrade winked and looked pointedly at Sherlock's crotch and back up.

Sherlock acted put upon and mumbled something beginning with,"For God's sake, when will the goldfish....." the taps coming on drowned out the rest.

Lestrade was handed a carrier of two teas, two coffees and a bag of something warm. As he reached for his wallet, he was waved away.

He was up the stairs and setting the small breakfast out on mismatched plates when he heard the three point tread on the stairs. Mycroft wandered past the open kitchen door and Lestrade greeted him, "Got coffee or a builder's, which ever you prefer. And something meant to be croissants but there is some sort of filling. Brown so chocolate maybe?"

Mycroft turned and Lestrade gasped. Then his anger surged and he deepened his voice into a rumble, "Did John Watson do that to you?"

Mycroft's brows furrowed and his head tilted backward so he could look down his nose snobbishly. "What gave you that idea?"

Lestrade busied himself with opening a coffee and said, "Your car picked him up from here last night. What hospital is he in?"

At that, Mycroft smiled. "You think my fighting skills would have thwarted John's? How flattering."

Greg blushed, "Maybe, but you got minions for back up. But all I can say is, if he is not in hospital yet, he will be when I get done with him."

Mycroft touched his swollen eye and hooked his umbrella on his arm, then stepped forward and reached for the coffee Greg held out.

Their fingers touched and their gazes locked and Mycroft let out an involuntary sigh as his face flamed and his eyes dropped to his beverage. "The kindness of that thought is greatly appreciated, however, I assure you, that is quite unnecessary."

"He almost took a swing at me the other night too. I don't know what it is, not for sure, but there is something wrong with John. I do not think he would ever hurt Rosie, but in my line of work..well..."

"Rosamund Watson is with me at this time. She is quite safe, I assure you. But, you are not wrong, about John, thusly I have interrupted your romantic ritual feeding of a new lover," Mycroft said slightly uncomfortable and with barely disguised chagrin. He sipped at the coffee and studied Lestrade's reaction to both statements. "Surprised to find you dressed and seemingly intent on anything other than my brother's amours."

Greg's eyes narrowed at the teasing. He wanted to tell Mycroft that his brother's attentions were not what he desired most, however it also irked him that Mycroft could pretend not to care after what he heard the night before. "Unless you want me to share a very detailed account, perhaps we could just let that subject be off limits for the moment. We were actually on our way to your's. Sherlock was worried--"

"No I wasn't and you're late. Tell me." Sherlock interrupted as he buttoned his cuffs and plucked a plate and a cup from the table without breaking stride. "I have to feed this one between orgasmic bliss, brother mine, he is much more of a go getter in the sack than one might expect. Don't let the grey hair fool you, he is keeping me on my..."

"God...do shut up? You do not share what happens in our bedroom, Sherlock. We had this talk." Greg admonished.

Sherlock winked, "He might go away faster."

"We rocketed out of bed to go see him, here he is, we have lovely croissants with brown stuff in them that smells nice, and now you are acting the cock. Stop it. This bickering between you two is only fun for you. I am not putting up with it."

"Yes, but he is not dead, so he can go away. Mission complete," Sherlock pleaded.

"Be nice." Greg pointed at him poignantly.

Sherlock sighed. "Very well, won't you come in and join us, brother dear. Have a seat and do describe the adventure that lead to your facial contusion and broken rib? From the baby sick on your sleeve, my Goddaughter has been pawned off on you. Why do you have young Watson? Where's John?"

Mycroft paced the sitting room with his coffee. Greg came with his food in one hand and his drink in the other. He remembered to wiggle about and frown as he sat, but could not pull off a full wince as he was seconds away from laughing at the whole situation because Mycroft looked as if he'd been listening to a concert of beginning clarinet players. He took a bite of his pastry, to cover his urge to giggle, decided the filling was actually mince and washed it down with his black coffee.

Mycroft took ages to get his words out as if he could avoid them somehow, "That is precisely why I came in person. John is on his way ...to Sherrinford."

There was a moment of absolute silence, then with the visceral shriek of some Viking warrior, Sherlock lunged for his brother, airborne from the chair as his platform and crashing full force on his brother with no care for self-preservation.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Lestrade dropped everything, paying no mind to anything other than saving his two favourite idiots from themselves. He was shocked a little to see that Mycroft was not simply being beaten to a pulp but in fact gaining control of his brother as they tumbled upon the floor in their posh suits.

Greg surveyed and determined that as the aggressor, Sherlock was his target. He calmly looped an arm around his neck and applied appropriate pressure as he said softly, " Mycroft, let him go. Sherlock you are bleeding on my suit, stand down or I will force you to stop. "

Sherlock did stop, and Greg helped him to his feet. He stood between them, glancing at Mycroft as he struggled to get out of the awkward position and on his feet. "Alright?"

Mycroft used the sofa to leverage himself upright and nodded as he smoothed his hair down and took stock of the state of himself.

Sherlock stood in defeat, "How could you? I will never forgive you."

"Now hang on, Sunshine." Greg held his hand out in warning as he spoke, "You never even asked if he went as a visitor or a patient."

Sherlock huffing in adrenaline filled fury responded, "I don't have to. Look at him. The shame is all over his face. He sent my John to that place...Just like he did my sister."

"I did not send her there. I was a teenager for goodness sake, Sherlock. And John... he... it is for the best and John agrees."

That shocked both Sherlock and Lestrade.

"No. He would die first. I know him and..." Sherlock reasoned.

"Yes, and he nearly did just that at my home last evening. I offered him an alternative and he grudgingly accepted. " Mycroft sat on the sofa, decidedly unhappy but resigned.

"Maybe we better hear this from the top, yeah?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock adjusted his clothing, sighed at the missing buttons on his suit coat and sat back in his chair dusting himself uselessly because his black showed everything.

"The floor is yours, Mycroft," Greg prompted.

"Yes, well. I am currently wearing a significant portion of it."

"My? What did I say?" Greg spoke to him as more parent than nefarious employee or pseudo brother in law.

Mycroft raised his brows in forehead wrinkled challenge, but with a sniff and a huff, he did begin to speak. "We had a rather heated discussion. Things were said from both sides that could have been handled better. He was calm. I was calm, or so I thought. He told me something and I dismissed it as bluster. He said that he wished Mary had caught him doing something I refuse to disclose. However the important thing was that he had thought through the simple concept that if he had found a way to anger her that way, it was possible that she may have resorted to such measures as her profession allowed. She would have got away with it, he surmised. We continued speaking cordially and I honestly had no idea he had made the connection that I too could service the same primary role. " Mycroft had actual tears in his eyes as he shook his head.

From Sherlock's moan, he seemed to understand.

"Say that in English, My. For the goldfish in the room." Greg requested.

Mycroft looked at Greg and smiled fondly, and explained with care, " As his murderer. He attacked me without warning or cause, knowing full well the measures of my security. "

Lestrade shook his head, "Why?"

Sherlock spoke in a low tone, with little inflection, "He thinks my sister has programmed him to kill his family. Like she did to her last doctor who tried to help her. He killed them all and then himself. John reasoned that if he were killed by SAS, before he can complete whatever it is she told him to do, then it was worth the sacrifice. History repeats itself. Only this time, he dies to save me "

Mycroft cleared his throat and a dabbed each eye with a handkerchief, then blew his nose. "We have a team of the finest psychiatric professionals in the world at Sherrinford. She had held the whole asylum in her sway. We could not turn these creatures on the world, her former guards. We hope to help them, you understand. We are trying, but it has been, difficult."

Sherlock's head popped up," How many of them have committed suicide? In this program?"

Mycroft frowned, "All but seventeen," he shrugged, "I am sorry. But, that does not mean we are making no progress. Most did not give us the time to have even begun to understand,"

"And now, John Watson is one of her.... creatures. Is that what you just said?"

"What would you have me say. That man is not John Watson. Not the one you knew. He hasn't been for a very long time. He is fighting though. The man who made a choice to not allow himself to harm those he loves, that was your John, somewhere deep down in him. He always had more heart than was good for him." Mycroft looked around the room as if searching for something.

"So, what does this mean? What are we going to do now?"

"We are going to Sherrinford, of course," Sherlock plead, demanded and stated all at once.

"The helicopter is waiting," Mycroft countered.

Greg sighed, "Of course it is."

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

>  
> 
> The helicopter was waiting at the ready. They climbed aboard and Greg was a bit squeezed in the middle. He could feel Sherlock trembling over even the shimmy of the take off. He reached out and took his hand and gave it a little pressure then released so Sherlock could pull away if he wished.

Sherlock looked down at his hand as if he had been handed an interesting but lethal tree frog. His head tilted to look up at Greg and then he gripped back.

Though Mycroft pretended not to notice this exchange, Greg caught how he stiffened slightly. On a whim he reached out to Mycroft as well and offered his open hand to him.

Mycroft glared at him with exasperation. Greg shrugged and let his eyes soften into a shy smile. He waited. Mycroft looked pointedly away and out the window. Just as Greg was about to accept the rejection, Mycroft removed his glove and folded his hand into Greg's and closed his eyes.

Greg glanced at Sherlock to see if he noticed and Sherlock gave him a encouraging upturn of his lips as if pleased, before masking the emotion with his bored and annoyed face.

They rode the whole way, each Holmes clinging to the offered comfort and Greg feeling like the luckiest bugger in the land.

Sherlock went to visit John first. He sat on the bed staring ahead as he had seen Eurus do so often. The difference was that John had rolled his feet until the weight of his legs actually rested on his ankles, his hands were in his lap twisting relentlessly and his face was wet with silent tears.

Sherlock stood quietly.

  
"Please go away. Don't see me like this," John said without looking towards the glass a single time.

"You're here. You knew I'd turn up," Sherlock replied calmly.

John nodded and smiled a little, but it was fleeting. "Not this time. I didn't think you would."

"Why would you deduce me so poorly when I have invested so much time teaching you?"

"I am probably going to die here. I don't want you to watch."

"That is very kind of you. You had no problem allowing my brother to be the one I would have blamed. How do you think that would have gone? Surely if you were to glance at me you would see the condition of my suit and be able to deduce what happened when he told me he put you here ".

John startled and did stand and walked toward the glass. "Didn't he tell you why?"

"I did not let him get that far."

John sucked air into his nose and tried to hide the chuckle, his hand came to his mouth as he flashed exactly the John in Sherlock's mind palace for a moment. His eyes soften and he asked, "And how did that go?"

"Significantly better than it did for you, though he is probably going to have a matching set of eyes and a very raspy voice for some time."

John smiled genuinely, and said, "I am going to miss you, so very much."

"Are you? Sure?"

"Yes. I have missed you for a long time, you know?

"I will come here too often for that to happen."

John smiled, and shook his head. "I don't want you to."

"Why come here if you are not even going to try?"

"I was not given alternatives you know?"

"It's not a trick, it's a plan?"

John shrugged and nodded. "Yeah."

They did not speak for a moment. John seems to be having an internal debate. He takes the last few steps and approaches the glass. " Look, as far as I am concerned, until I am better, this is Goodbye... no...let me. Just in case. I never said a word about the morgue because I honestly have a blank spot. I don't remember and what your brother showed me is not what I thought happened. So there is that. I don't know what will happen. I could disappear. I am sorry I did that. I don't know if it was your sister or something that is just happening. Physically. But whatever happens, no matter what. Just know that... I loved you. I always will. "

"How could you not have known? You are ... ". Sherlock cannot finish.

"It is fine, Sherlock. I know now. You have no idea... what it means. Now, go have a happy life with Gilroy and get out of here ."

"Greg?"

John laughed. "Gotcha."

Sherlock tried to smile.

"You need to go, now. I am tired."

"Alright. I will be back, you know. "

John nodded, unable to hide the hope. "We'll see." He turned and very deliberately got in the bed, turned to his side and closed his eyes.

Sherlock stood there for a moment longer reaching out to the glass as if he could almost make it fade from reality by will alone.

Mycroft sipped his tea and held an icepack to his head. It was not helping significantly, but it was something to do.

"Those poor bastards," Lestrade murmured.

"You will try to keep him hopeful, won't you? " Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded. "Course I will."

"I am glad he has you. Truly I am. This would be significantly harder on him if he did not."

They watched Sherlock head through the extra security, towards the chambers where Eurus was now housed.

Sherlock stood at the glass, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

She gave a pleased smile, never looking toward him. "It is not Tuesday. So that means John Watson is dead. ".


	14. Chapter 14

When Sherlock left John, Mycroft left the monitor open. John curled into himself and sobbed.

"Can I see him?" Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed. "I suppose it cannot hurt. Perhaps not today, though. He only just got here. This is a very different reality from what he had expected his life to be. Grief is to be expected."

  
Down another hallway, in a slightly larger and more expansive but similar accommodation, Sherlock stood too close to the glass, breaking the rules as he so often did.

Sherlock neither confirmed nor denied his sisters deduction about why he was visiting on a Saturday morning rather than on his usual day.

She looked at him, just turning her head, then back to the empty abyss in which she stared. "You're not crying. Good boy, you are learning. And you have had quite the row with Mycroft. That always pleases me."

" What did you do to John?"

"I can teach you to do it too. The same things I do to them all. I tell them what they want to hear. I find their own constructive hell and let them have the keys. John was easy. But to be fair, I did not know you then. He was a sneaky little mouse with the teeth of a lion. By the time I realised he was your protector, nobody would let me fix him."

Sherlock looked at her and knew he had to hide what he was thinking. " Would you have tried to fix it?"

Eurus nodded. "There is a hole in your operating system. Is he dead?"

"No. He tried to be last night," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh. And?"

Sherlock bit his lip rather than speak.

"How many of my children are still alive? "

"Who?"

"Oh right, you call them guards? How many still breathe!"

"Seventeen."

She looked blank for a moment, then smiled as if distracted by something only she could see. "Plus one. Can I fix him,? Yes, of course, good as new. Will I fix him? No. "

"You just said that you would have if you had the chance?"

"Both are true. I would have, but I will not now."

"Will you help me fix him?"

"Wrong question."

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pocket, frustrated.

"Stop trying to hide things from me. Think Sherlock, why did my answer change?"

He looked at her and tilted his head, eyes locked on her. " Anything. My life?"

"Promises are moist carbon dioxide. He will never give you what I ask. I do not want your life, baby brother. Boring. I am not Culverton Smith. I want five minutes..." She listened carefully and cocked her ear, waiting for him to fill in her blank.

"Unsupervised."

"Yes, in my cell, with me."

She smiled up at the cameras and then turned her back on Sherlock as if dismissing him.

He turned and just as he did she said, "See you on Tuesday. Do not forget your violin. Your playing is coming along quite well. "

They had food from the cafeteria for lunch. It was not wonderful but it was perfectly serviceable and Lestrade tried to lighten the mood by saying it beat vending machine fare at New Scotland Yard. But in general it was a dour meal.

"You do know, that what she wants is impossible. She would kill you with time to spare. She has no intention of helping you. John is nothing but a carrot to dangle to get something but she cannot or will not deliver. It is a game for her. Manipulating you in order to get to me."

"You are probably right." Sherlock rolled the asparagus spears back and forth on his plate. Lining them up so one could be pushed and the others would roll in unison. He was so lost in this task he lost track of his surroundings.

When he finally looked up, he realised his brother and Greg were both silently observing him. Greg was disconcerted by his repetitive movements but Mycroft looked at him with fear in his eyes, having followed his train of thoughts.

"It will never work. People are not so pliable and I do not roll like that."

Sherlock and Greg rode back to London. Mycroft stayed behind citing a need to review the progress of the patient files.

"We were going to have our big joke of a sleepover tonight. Don't know if it is worth bothering with now. But you are welcome back at mine, if you... "

"Yes. I do not... I should not be alone, not tonight. I.. it has been a very destructive day. I am sorry to burden you...". Sherlock lurched through his words, his emotional state that of an earthquake.

"I don't mind. Like old times."

"No. I won't be vomiting on you or kacking my pants," Sherlock said.

Lestrade smirked. "Well, better old times then."

"Besides, maybe I will get two nights of sleep in a row. Can always use the data."

He reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "I am terribly sorry about John," he said sympathetically.

"At least he is alive. Probably should have thanked my brother for that. He could have just..."

"But he didn't. Mycroft is a very good man, you know?"

Sherlock huffed, "Where do you get these notions. You just want to get a leg over. It clouds your mental acuity. "

"He let me hold his hand today. Do not spoil it."

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The time until Tuesday seemed to crawl by the second. Sherlock actually watched a second hand make its way around the clock face. His internal clock registered three hours and eleven minutes.

Lestrade tried to distract him as best he could. This involved a marginally creepy amount of hair stroking, back scratching, cuddling in front of the telly, and toenail care. In return, Sherlock gave Greg a proper massage, complete with deep tissue torture and screaming that he had bruised him, given him a chart on love bites along with far too much hands-on data, and taught him how to guess the time of death based on ocular clouding of the victims lenses rather than the less precise body temperature gauge.

"The University de Santiago de Compostela wrote a study on my findings," Sherlock said offhandedly as if he had no intentions of impressing anyone and it was simply a minuscule side note.

Then it was Monday, and Greg went to the yard. Sherlock went home and had to break the news about John to Mrs. Hudson. She was beside herself until she saw the love bite on his neck, then she was angry at him. He blurted out the whole sad tale of deception and intended intrigue to his friend so dear, then took her off semi-permanent mute because he would have gone insane without her chatter.

She was most unhappy that her Goddaughter had been placed with Mycroft and was on the phone with him in less than half an hour, demanding she not be dragged hither and yon with interchangeable nannies whilst she herself had a breath in her body. She was off in her car, still on the phone without so much as a by your leave to Sherlock before he realised her intentions.

He hid up in his flat, hanging out the window, smoking like a Texas barbecue pit when he was roused from his sullen hobby to pack a store of baby things in.

He spent the next several hours learning things about child care, he did not particularly want to know, then the process was reversed for her to return to Mycroft and her nanny for the evening. He was exhausted but it had passed the time.

Lestrade stopped by and took one look around and nearly choked laughing at the tip one small Watson had created. "Looks like a plush crime scene in here." He sat on something that made a musical sound and Sherlock threatened to shoot the "crimson beastie " if it did not stop that infernal off-key chiming.

Tuesday morning brought chaos as Lestrade left whilst Rosie was delivered and Sherlock was nearly late for his helicopter. But, on the upside he had survived the eternity since he had seen John, only dwelling on the misery of his absence thirteen times an hour, down from forty. It was progress.

His time with John was short. He was only allotted fifteen minutes because he had therapy and Mycroft was not there to bend the rules.

John was perfectly cordial but quiet and his smiles were forced. He assured Sherlock that he was treated well. Sherlock did not tell him about Rosie and John did not inquire. The visit was unsatisfactory overall and Sherlock also realised John had noticed the display on his throat and refused to look him in the eye afterwards. He left when he was told, promising to come again soon.

Eurus was another matter. As her only visitor, he had unlimited time with her.

She stood waiting, violin in hand, forlorn expression on her face. "You came?"

He set his violin down and unsnapped the latches. "It is Tuesday. It is our day?"

She smiled and began to play whilst he adjusted his tuning to her instrument. Satisfied, he joined her, his passion meeting her precision as they spoke their own language.

She sat on her haunches placing the violin and bow to some exactitude of her mind on the floor in front of her. She folded her hands and said, "Tell me why I should? Play him for me, "

Sherlock began with the wedding waltz. Her eyes were far away. "He hurt you, and gave his heart to another, why should I save him?"

Sherlock played something he had been working on when Mary died, it was fast paced and dark with a gypsy flavour and not his standard classical, it faded into ancient Persian tones and finally became a love song.

She sat contemplating. " You will die without him. I will lose you."

"Not on purpose. He would not approve. But yes. I do not want to survive him."

"But you have taken a lover?"

Sherlock hung his head, he locked his instrument in its case and sat on the floor cross legged before his sister . "It is complicated"

"Oh they always are. Messy little complicated comforts of which I am allowed none. The only touch I have ever known has been here. And your touch, my brother. And his. Of course. He was, placid and indulgent."

"He can be that way. Peaceful. He is also full of wild rage."

"Yes. I harnessed it. But did not tame him. Not like my children. Are there still seventeen?"

"Yes."

"I did not kill him. His only value to me was the fact that he belonged to you. I had no idea that you did not know. I thought you did not come out of disinterest. Disinterest is far more evil than murder or hatred."

"I come now."

"Tell Mycroft you wish to visit me in the cell. He can monitor. Let me prove I mean you no harm. I have a plan but it may be a trick?" She smiled.

"I am not afraid of you, Sister mine. I love you. You are family. If you wanted me dead you could have killed me a hundred times. You had chips with me instead."

"The chips were for you. You were... sad? I did not expect his wife to die. I did not calculate it. "  
"Nor did I," he whispered.

"It was a good night. Someday we will have more. Promise."

He smiled and leaned forward and fogged the glass with his breath. With his fingertip he drew a heart. "No promises I cannot keep. Hope is not as worthless as a promise. "

This pleased her.

 


	16. Chapter 16

It was Wednesday and it marked the one week adventure of he and Sherlock. He had had an early shout and the body had been removed but they were still going over the scene. Greg looked up and saw one of those cars that screamed Mycroft's influence, so as soon as he could make sure Sally was on lead at the scene, he ambled over to see if the car was for him.

The driver got out and jogged around to open the door for him. He bent at the waist and peeked in before committing to the kidnapping. He could not wipe the silly grin from his face when himself was sitting there for half an hour just to speak with him. He noticed that not a hair was out of place and he smelled like he had just put on cologne.

"Hello, Mycroft. Fetching waistcoat, that. Brings out your eyes," He remarked pleasantly keeping in mind that niggling hint Sherlock had told him about people being at ease if they think you are delighted to see them.

Mycroft's face scrunched up and he looked at Greg as if he'd gone mad. "I....errrr...."

Dear God, an honest compliment had broken Mycroft. Greg watched him blink himself back online just to hit him with the zapper again. "You always look nice, but there is just something about Green that is positively peng. Always meant to tell you that."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and tapped his umbrella twice signalling the driver to pull out. "Sherlock put you up to that, I suppose."

"Up to what?"

"This pretending to care, obviously. " He waved his hand dismissively.

"Did I miss something? Jesus, Mycroft, I don't have to pretend. How could I not care? You are brilliant and try to help everyone you can, you have all this power and you still work yourself blind... You even know what fork to use but try not to make fun of those of us who don't. You are out there saving the world without even a bloody thank you and you still have time for Sherlock every time he cocks up. You also smell nice by the way and It is dead sexy and I don't give a damned if you believe what I say or not. Just makes me wonder though..."

"Wonder what?" Mycroft manages as if he wants to crawl out of the car whilst it is moving.

Greg twists in the seat, one knee curled onto the leather and props his head on his elbow in a casual posture. "How long it must have been since someone gave you a compliment because they wanted to, and not because it might get them a notch in the diplomatic pissing contest where everyone is as fake as a Tower Bridge bill of sale."

For a split second, Greg got just a glimpse of Mycroft, chubby kid who probably liked to read adventure stories and just wanted to stay home and read to his sick baby brother. Before he had to go out in the world of evil minds and learn to predict them and out wit them all just to survive. "You been swimming with the sharks so long you think you have become one of them. But you don't fool me. And I am also glad to see the swelling has gone down. With the cover stick, you can barely even tell. "

Mycroft took a deep breath to speak, then still seemed like his brain was locked up. He shook his head and relaxed backward into the seat, leaning against the door. "You are the most exasperating man, Gregory Lestrade."

Greg grinned and encouraged the informality, "Thank you. It is a gift but It took years of training to perfect it as a craft."

Mycroft smiled, just a little, and it was not his normal 'everyone is stupid' smile, it might have even been a shadowy whisper of his real smile.

"Wow. First real expression I ever saw on your face. It's nice. Feel honoured."

"What a terrible shame, that...."

Greg tilted his head, "What, My?"

"That my idiot brother saw you first. The only person I know who sees me. A man of adequate intelligence, yet an uncanny instinct that can cut through all the armour and see a human there in."

Greg blinked and almost spoke his heart, but hesitated. "You sure he did? See me first?"

Mycroft's brows clearly asked the question.

"Just... I'd have to be a real numpty not to notice, you know? The cameras? Have to be blind to have missed twenty-three of them focused on my front door."

Blushing was quite charming on the British Government. "I am... I shall have them removed at once. My apologies."

"Maybe, I don't mind. Makes me feel like, I don't know, watched over... protected. Not so alone sometimes. You don't have to stop. "

"That is not how people normally react."

"How do they normally react?"

Mycroft grinned like a naughty boy, "They try to blow me up or have me assassinated."

Greg burst out laughing and his companion giggled with no reserve whatsoever.

Mycroft cleared his throat and dried his eyes, fanning himself slightly. "Well, this has been the most unproductive hour, we never got round to addressing what I meant to speak to you about, and here is your stop. I have a golf game in half an hour which I have looked forward to all week, and now, I almost don't care to play. Alas, I don't even remember making the appointment, middle age."

"That's okay. Kidnap me anytime. I sort of enjoy it after all these years." Greg opened the door and stepped out of the car with a wink and a click of his tongue.

Mycroft rolled the window down and said loudly, "Thirty-four."

Greg walked backwards and shrugged, not understanding.

"Not twenty-three. Thirty-Four!" Mycroft rolled up the window as Lestrade melted into a flirtatious blush but tried to look cool and tough doing it.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Sherlock came home very down after his fourth visit to John. A fortnight had allowed an awakening despair to set in for John and Sherlock both. Sherlock had tried to show John pictures of Rosie. The intention was to leave the photographs as inspiration for him, but John had sent him away and refused the photos of his child. The head of the psychology lab had called Mycroft and respectfully requested that Sherlock not visit his patient for a while. He convinced Mycroft that this was for the best somehow and Mycroft had set his foot down.

Sherlock was livid and though Lestrade tried to offer comfort the best he could, Sherlock was on a world class, burn the world tour of stupidity. He managed to get himself stabbed four times, a block away from the crime scene, out in Tower Hamlets, when Sherlock realised the murderer was there. The suspect left the detective  bleeding in a short mews and nicked his valuables before tossing him in a skip and closing the lid.

Sherlock would have died if the dishwasher were not a paramedic in training . He had taken the rubbish out early trying to end his shift in time for his girlfriend's birthday do. Sherlock would have bled out if he had been found by anyone else.

The guy who stabbed the mad man chasing him was, of course, unaware of the extensive tracking inherent to Sherlock's phone and was picked up hours later without any fuss.

Lestrade was furious with Sherlock and yet he knew he couldn't afford to show it because he knew exactly what Sherlock was making poor choices over.

Between work and checking on Sherlock there were about four days in which he had two hours of sleep at night and those were snatched in a hospital room lounge chair. Greg left the hospital on his way to work one morning when he spotted Mycroft leaning against his car, umbrella glistening with fine mist and a steaming cup of something in his hand. He smiled at Mycroft and approached.

"Sight for sore eyes, you are. Got one for me?"

"Indeed, I do." Mycroft presented him with a piping hot builders and a take away breakfast wrap that smelled delicious.

"God bless you. And why are you here? He has no phone and I spent half the night smoothing over the hurt feelings of the staff and administration of the Royal London, so please God tell me he has not started trouble so big you got involved."

Mycroft snickered and assured Greg that was not the case. "You have the day off as an official MI6 liaison, I believe you will even be compensated for your trouble."

Lestrade shook his head, with a sigh he asked, "Oh, official now am I? Sounds a bit like a fancy word for errand boy, so at least I have years of service and a proven track record. What is it this time, my usual nanny services are in pretty high demand right now."

"I have increased your security clearance and you will need to deliver the news of Sherlock's unfortunate inability to have their Weekly...visit. Also, I want you to see John, tell him, see if he will respond to you."

Lestrade looked doubtful, "You want me to go chat with your mad sister, the one who put Watson off his trolley and took over the whole stonking island of Doctor No? That's how you planned my day?"

Mycroft smiled then said with stiff amusement , "I brought you coffee."

Greg looked down, "Which is actually tea?"

Mycroft's smile stretched into that of a cat. "Things are rarely what they seem. You will be given instructions on engaging conversation with my sister. I have every confidence in your ability to remain unaffected. Save Mummy and John Watson, you appear to be the only other person on the planet that can deal with my siblings and I. I cannot fathom the day you are subjected to our brother."

Greg got a rather stupid look on his face as he ask, "I thought there were just the three of you."

Mycroft lit a cigarette and offered one to Greg. "Yes. People always give up after three. My parents were incredibly stubborn."

"Bloody hell. What's he like then?"

Mycroft exhaled smoke and held his drink in the same hand as his cigarette, the umbrella was more fashion statement than protection from the minimal amount of mist falling. "You are acquainted with the three of us, make an educated guess."

Lestrade grimaced as if he might be bracing for a hornet sting, "Dear God in heaven, what a blinding cock-up he must be. I am going to have nightmares now." Greg sucked the last of the fag and flicked it away.

Mycroft watched the butt land in the car park, "You can get an ASBO for that now."

Greg grinned. "I am going to go meet your sister and tell her I let her favourite brother get stabbed. I think I will try this living on the edge thing for the few hours I have left."

Mycroft sipped his tea thoughtfully, "What she does is not magic. It seems that way to some. However, a man who knows himself and accepts himself completely can never be warped by her. She seems like a monster to most, myself included, at times, but she does have her own moral codes. Murky as they may be to us. "

"So you actually hate me and are therefore sending me?" Lestrade took a bite of his wrap and ate wolfishly now that his system realised food still existed , " Sorta starving... sorry."

"Not at all. I am sending the one person, in my place, of whom I have every confidence can't become her thrall. You have no secrets for her to retune to her subjugation endeavours . You are exactly the man you show to the world. She may attempt to test you, but who knows, in your career, you may have even dealt with worse than she."

Lestrade chewed, his mouth full he sputtered, "Why don't you go?"

The cup was placed on the car hood and the umbrella canopy was released and let down. As he busied himself with wrapping the silk into a neat fabric fold and hooking the button, Mycroft spoke casually, "Dubai. From there I cannot tell you, but that is where I shall be departing for within the hour. If a guard tells her, she will feel cheated and act out accordingly. If I send her a... treat...perhaps there will be no national crisis upon my return."

"Why would I be a treat? Sounds a bit like a snack."

"You are her brothers lover. Curiosity.It has come to my attention that you enjoy the occasional cigar. When I return, perhaps you will share something from my humidor with me. With perhaps a Whisky. It will do you good to find a moment of Tranquility before resuming your ...Sherlock keeping task."

"See, even you know how to bribe me. I really will be a snack. Yes. Thank you. I... well I'd like that...."

Mycroft smiled. "Good. Well, the car is for you. My ride is standing by on the rooftop and I have been given signals that there are incoming casualties. Once I depart they will return to meet you at another location.  Should be there soon after you arrive, depending on the traffic you encounter. You will do fine. I shall look forward to our ... mutual tobacco rebellion."

Lestrade nodded, glanced upward, "I could just ride along. Drop you off and bird out to the dump in one go. Save the car trip. Government waste and all?"

Mycroft looked a bit startled in a pleased way. "Most...efficient of you. Well, mustn't keep them waiting then. Shall we?"

 


	18. Chapter 18

The helicopter ride to Sherrinford was a bit dull, but his nerves meant the ride itself was far too short.  He and Mycroft had had a lovely though brief ride.  There was no hand holding, but they made some plans for a pleasant evening of cigars, whisky tasting, and conversation.

He landed without any trouble, despite the dreary weather and a rough sea below.

He was searched and forced to watch several protocol videos. Given a psychological evaluation and had a cable attached to him on a harness to pull him out if need be. He was not best pleased and said several times to deaf ears,"She and I have met. Is this really necessary?"

Finally he headed into the complete isolation that was Eurus Holmes' entire world. Her back was to him. She held her violin, bow at the ready, but did not play.

"Hello, Eurus. Y'alright?"

She took a deep breath and spun. "I can't believe they let you come. Are you frightened?"

Greg grinned sheepishly and nodded. "Terrified. You gonna turn me into a a zombie and eat my liver?"

"I don't like liver. Too full of sorrow." She tilted her head to the side like a wind up doll and took two steps forward. "Your heart however would make a feast for the queen of the damned. That may tempt me. You are so bitter and pure. You were kind to me. Now tell me what has befallen my beloved brother."

He gave her the story, worded exactly as he was told , so it wouldn't upset her. She did not speak but watched him with an intensity similar to both Mycroft and Sherlock but somehow ramped up into something that felt like a God was judging your tale. In olden days she would have been an oracle or a witch.

Her eyes locked on and she gave a smile somewhere between Mona Lisa and a stoned lizard. "Oh. You love Sherlock very much, don't you?"

Lestrade nodded, because his answer was perfectly true.

She looked pleased. "But things are not always what they seem. I can help you?"

"With what? I don't need help. But thank you for your kind offer."

"If Watson dies he kills us all."

"He is doing fine."

"How do you know. You have not seen him yet. He is not fine. If he dies, Sherlock dies, then Mycroft, Then you... you are soft but not clever so do consider that order."

"I am not clever. Not even clever enough to follow whatever it is you are trying. I was told to answer you but not to let you get in my--"

At that moment, the power went off and they were plunged into blackness.

"We haven't long Gregory. They cannot hear us and if you want to..."

"I am not supposed to..." Greg felt dizzy in the utter black room. Theoretically, he knew he was safe, but it could not convince his instincts. They screamed for him to flee. He dropped to his knees as vertigo told him his whole body was tumbling through space.

"Yes. Screw it then, let the love of that huge heart of your's die. You will break beautifully."

"Sherlock is--"

"Not Sherlock silly. Mycroft. He is walking into a trap and he will not find what he seeks.  Iraq is not his normal playground these days. Tell him as soon as you leave. He already suspects, but he is looking in the wrong direction. Tell him the wind is at 270. This is my act of faith to you. When you come back next week you will see that I have saved his life for you. I would have let him die, but you are in love with Him. Also, John Watson will attempt to take his own life soon. It is not me who broke him, by the way. I just tweaked his little boxes into an arch, strong, but on its own so very vulnerable. He needs his walls in order to last. I need my children alive. They must let me see them or they will starve for me. But back to John, he is the one you must consider right now. Do tell him Sherlock was attacked. No matter how long, wait for him to respond. Do not tell him if he lives or dies until he responds. Leave if you have to but force him to surface. Guilt is the key to him. Tell him that I will fix him but he must stop comparing my brother to Jim. They are not the same. They never were. "

"You are doing that thing. I am going to be a gibberish talking window licker," Greg said on his knees trying to find his way. He found the glass first and backed away, but he needed the surety of the physical in order to feel steady so he set his hand on the glass and waited.

"I won't be coming back next week.."

"Yes you will. You will have to thank me, it is only polite. Then you are going to realise that you need to help me escape in order to keep the people you love. Go to confession, Gregory, tell the priest that only the angel of death may absolve a brave man. Tell him you confess that you pray for the soul of that servant and for all of the horsemen. Mycroft will lie. Do not tell him. And if I am right, then you will help me. Uh oh... have a nice trip."

She said the last part just as emergency lights came on and they were kneeling at the glass, a perfect mirror image of each other. Just as he realised she had found him in utter darkness and come to copy his position, he heard a click and he was forcefully yanked backwards and dragged across the slick concrete leaving behind one shoe as he watched Eurus look around and press her eyes to the glass as he was slammed into the lift and the doors closed.

Greg was rather furious because they would not let him have his shoe and on top of that, they had ruined his trousers and he had a rub burn on his hip. They wanted to grill him and he told them she mostly spoke in French and he did not understand her.

  
Finally there was a call. The power interruption had been caused by a pelican and the new Governor joked that even She could not be accused of talking birds into suicide at her will.

The prison returned to active alert from high lockdown and Lestrade was allowed to go see John.

What he found, broke his heart.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Author note:  Yes, this fic is taking on a life of its own and I am just ahead of you in the front car.  Several of you have noted the chapter count has turned into something like "Howlynn's moving Castle " but as fast as this is churning, it will take what it takes and The Numbers do not matter.  Thank you all for your kind comments they make my day and I will answer... but at the moment I am typing.  Come back soon because " oh look.  There IS MORE!"   Lol.  Cheers to all


	19. Chapter 19

John sat curled into the corner. His back to the room, his head on his knees and his arms propped over his head protectively. Lestrade felt fury rise first, even before pity. Were they beating him? He had seen that posture many times as a police officer.

"John?"

"John, It's Greg and I need to talk to you.

He waited and got nothing.

They had not warned him about this. Two hours worth of instructional videos about her, and not a word for John. Mycroft had not warned him. Eurus was the only one who tried to warn him of John's state.

"John, you need to talk to me. Sherlock was chasing a suspect. Took off, nobody thought anything about it. We didn't even know to look. He was stabbed. Four wounds to the torso. They left him in a skip. "

Greg stood for a long time, but there was nothing. "Okay, well, sorry I bothered you. I will let you get back to your ... my mistake....

He turned to go and peeked back at John to see if Eurus knew what she was talking about. Still, there was nothing but his friend curled up in a ball.

He was subjected to another psychological babel session in which he and John's doctor nearly came to blows. Greg was slightly worried that she could take him.

"Progress? Are you really going to stand there and say that with a straight face? That man came here for the equivalent to some anger management therapy and a bit of a top up on his self care during a crisis aftermath and in three weeks you have taken him from one of the bravest men I know and turned him into a person displaying all the body language of a mentally abused victim of human trafficking... so do not venture to play the all knowing doctor routine with me and I will not have to show you my full on bad cop bit. And just to be clear, when Mycroft Holmes gets back, we will be having a discussion about how high paid incompetents can put a spanner in the works when their egos won't let them listen to reason!"

They seemed much less interested in their jammy little lingo vomit session after he had failed to stroke their proprietary hierarchy.

Lestrade was not hungry exactly when he arrived back in the main common room of fun city, but the cafeteria smelled of a Sunday roast and he knew he would be stuck at hospital all night so he may as well take advantage of the free food now.

He had just begun picking at his meat and trying to sort his thoughts on the days events when a man and woman rushed into the commons and headed directly for him. They took him to John's psychiatric doctor whom he had already had words with.

The woman smiled at him as she pushed her heavy glasses up her nose and asked that he follow.

John was standing at the glass banging his fists and though panicked, at least communicating. "Please tell me. Greg? Please tell me. Please don't go. Greg. Please tell me?"

When John finally saw him he bent forward with relief. "Sherlock. Please tell me if he is alive or not? You did not tell me. How could you leave and not tell me?"

Lestrade turned to the woman, "Let me in his cage."

She whispered disapprovingly, "You cannot call his resident space ...that!"

"Listen Doctor Poindexter--"

"Pastrana.."

"Whatever, I need in there."

"You do not have clearance for in residence passes so I am afraid..."

Greg had his phone to his ear in a heartbeat and said simply, "Don't I?"

"You are not supposed to have that down here. This is outrageous."

"Hello? Anthea? Yeah I am still here, I need in John's cage and Dr. Pastrami needs..."

"Pastrana...Pas..Tra...naaaa "

Lestrade smirked and suddenly realised exactly why Sherlock did the name shuffling to people, himself included. It was entertaining to get them so off balance and though he doubted it would make anyone more cooperative, they would not be less so either.

"Here, Dr. Pastybanana, it's for you." He held out the phone.

"Are you trying to be funny? "She asked glaring at him but accepting the phone. "This is Dr. Pastrana, how may I....oh...I did not...yes...yes ma'am. I see. Of course. "

He was let in John's cage after nearly twenty minutes of the doctor trying to out political speak and out science Anthea. During this time Lestrade stood trying to soothe John but refusing to answer.

As he entered the room, he got a different perspective. There was nothing to look at. Nothing to do. It was clean and nice. It was not grungy and noisy like a regular prison, but the calm was too much. The false tranquility felt oppressing rather than spirituality nourishing. Mycroft had called the place hell once and the second Greg got a glimpse from inside the box, he instantaneously felt the torture of emptiness seep into his soul.

No wonder John was losing his mind. Bleak had only been a word before. Here it was a malevolent presence.

"John. God, I am so sorry. I did not think. Yes, of course he is alive. " Greg stepped forward and put his arms around John and the man who he had watched take everything life could throw at him with a warriors grace turned into him and began to sob. He held him until they were both feeling ridiculous as he murmured that Sherlock would be fine. He also said the words Eurus told him to say. "He is not Moriarty. He is a good man. Sherlock is not like Jim other than they were both really clever. You have got to stop blaming yourself for it." John stiffened at first, then his sobbing redoubled.

"John, you have to hang on. You have to try. If you leave him, he will never... be okay"

John spoke into Greg's chest. "I am not real here. Nothing is real. There is no day or night No time. Nothing to do. I am going mad. Greg, they turn out the lights. There are things, in the dark. I cannot do this much longer."

"It was just a pelican. The electric shut off because he shorted out the whole place. They got it fixed now."

"No. They do it all the time. Punish us with it. Play sounds over the speakers. When you leave, they will. It is so dark here. Like death."

"I will see what I can do. Listen you just keep it together for a couple more weeks. Got a plan working. I will find a way. I will not leave you behind."

"The things. The things that happened here. You do not know. Is Sherlock really alive. How can I even trust that?" John shrugged. "You are only wearing one shoe.  That alone makes one of us mad, don't you think?"

Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket. This was sorely against the rules and he was probably about to cause someone some major headaches but he dialled the Royal London and got the nurses station to plug in the phone in Sherlock's room and handed the phone to John.

John looked like he was not going to take the phone, as if it were a trick, then snatched it from Greg's fingers and put as much distance between the two of them as possible blatantly showing his terror that the phone would be taken from him again. "Hello?"

John still seemed sceptical as he heard the voice on the line. He asked several odd questions about food and a trip to the palace and ashtrays and clowns then, with a deep breath, John sat down, back to the wall and closed his eyes and began to talk.

Greg sat on what passed for a bed and simply observed. The mad doctor left without a word, but Greg assumed she was still watching from the evil red eye of her cameras.

John and Sherlock talked until the phone died completely. When the warnings began, John had a bit of a panic and waffled between begging him not to leave him and saying coded goodbyes. When the screen went dark his face scrunched in misery but he gathered himself, stood up, brought the phone to Greg and thanked him.

Greg stayed for a bit longer, but he needed to get back to London and get a message to Mycroft about a West Wind. He promised to return as soon as he could. John stood at the Glass, looking a bit like a lost puppy.

As Greg's Helicopter began to take off, he noticed one arriving, hovering and turning to land. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him, because he knew that he could not have possibly seen what his eyes had just registered.

Jim Moriarty pressed a face to the glass of the other Helicopter and waved to him with a gleefully excited grin.

Greg shook his head and rubbed his eyes. That was utterly impossible. He needed sleep.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Greg was flown to a small heliport north of London. A car awaited him and Anthea was seated within. Greg looked hungrily at her sandwiches and without a word, she offered him half as she typed one handed on the touch screen of her phone.

"I was told to ply your cooperation with delicacy, but I only had time to pick up sarnies"

Greg hesitated for a moment but he had never actually gotten to eat more than a few bites of the food at Sherrinford so he accepted, not particularly picky in whatever the offering was because the day had left him feeling as if his senses were stuck in sand. He could feel uneasy vibrations, but could not narrow any guess at their centres.

"Thanks for picking me up."

Anthea put her phone carefully next to her seat, screen up, so that she could monitor something on what looked like a map of gibberish to Greg. She smiled blandly and said, "I am here to make sure your encounter has not been detrimental to you. Your ride had too many hours on the tank and needed to fuel so I was in the neighbourhood and thought we might chat before you ..."

"Tried to fly or ended up chasing the swans in the boating lake?" Greg filled in with a sheepishly charming grin and took a huge bite of his sandwich.

She snorted slightly and her eyes went wide at her faux pas but she just shrugged it off and shook her head. "I do see how you disarm him so easily. You would be a great asset at the boring stuffed shirt dos. But, yes, I have been fielding an impressive list of complaints, reported incidents and breaks in protocol. You are also only wearing one shoe so perhaps we should begin there. What happened in the dark, Detective Inspector?"

"There was no warning. I did what they said until then. She was a bit odd, but she didn't seem hostile either. It all went black and I completely lost my bearings. Felt like I was going to fall, so I dropped to my knees and the thought went through my head that she had done this then I was a sitting duck and needed to be somewhere else if she was out. You could not see anything and my stomach was acting a bit like it might rebel. So I turned around and began to crawl and instead of the wall, I hit glass. By then she was talking..."

"What did she say?"

"I told them," he began.

"A load of bollocks. In the first place, I know you speak French and in the second, I know Eurus and her tricks. Just because she did not plan the event, does not mean she is not a master of opportunistic flexibility. Tell me exactly."

He did tell her. He also left out the instructions about confession but stressed the part about Mycroft in danger. "Look, I have no idea how that can help him but you need to get him the message that the Wind is at 270. I know that is a heading as well for people who fly, but it means West. The wind is from the west. Do you think it means something?"

"Yes. It does, Greg. I am so sceptical to trust it. But if it is true it is certain that he is headed into a trap along with an entirely altruistic bunch of two faced rats. Did she say anything else. And please do understand that the smallest detail could be my key to this? "

"She told me, some personal things. Said if John Watson dies we all will. She said that..." He looked away uncomfortably. "That I love Sherlock very much, but I love Mycroft more?"

She took a short breath and her eyes widened" Oh? And tell me, please be honest, is that true?"

Greg fiddled with his sock and tried to brush off some of the sticky debris it had accumulated since his adventure in the dark. " Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sorry. I don't mean to..."

"Interesting ...thank you for your candour." She lifted her phone and began typing rapidly and swishing quickly between screens.

"I mean there is no way that part could help but..."

"Oh no. That part is very important. Anything else?"

"Yeah, but I did not understand it. Something about making my confession and saying I pray for the four horsemen... like from the apocalypse. It does not make sense and I am not Catholic so, I have no idea..."

"Christ on a biscuit, why did you not tell me that, in the first place?"

"It does not mean anything "

"Yes, it actually means. You do know there are four of them, don't you? Mummy says she released them upon the world. Mycroft is war, Sherlock is famine, Eurus is pestilence and Siger... he is..."

"The angel of death?"

"A priest, yes." She picked up the onboard intercom and spoke softly " rerouting to The Immaculate Conception, Farm Street. Step on it."

"What?"

"Father Holmes. You have a confession to make and I have a plane to reroute. Tell him all you told me and add that all roads lead to Damascus. He will know. I don't have time to explain. You see , he was headed a hundred and twenty-five clicks north of Baghdad to meet with people about a power plant on the Tigress. It is a trap and he is going to be collateral damage if I don't get in the wind. Just do your part. From there it is up to Siger."

They neared Mayfair and though Anthea seemed incredibly occupied he had to ask one last thing. "Is there any chance that Jim Moriarty is alive after all? Is this him?"

"No. He is dead, I assure you. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just, Sherlock says she created him. It was Eurus all along. You think that is true?"

Althea frowned and said, "Mostly.. now off you pop. This is yours."

"How will I know it is the right guy? Could be a spy or something?"

She snickered, "Oh...You will know. Trust me and you have my deepest regrets. I will make it up to you someday.. just keep that in mind when you see me next time."

"Hey, do me a favour and don't tell him... you know. The feelings stuff. Yeah?"

"Lips are sealed."

He exited the car and could have sworn he heard her say, "...for now."

 

~~~~

 

Author note: Here is a hint.  Look up what city is 125 kilometres north of Baghdad?    Lol.   

Then take a heading of 270.   If the wind is at 270 and you take a heading of 270, you are flying into the wind.   


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

 

 

 

> Greg walked up the steps of the church. He was greeted by a very young blond fellow in a long formal cassock, denoting his service to the Jesuit order. His hands were folded serenely and his eyes shown with that light of the godly and the mad. Lestrade attempted a passable genuflect movement and the boy frowned slightly but did not seem willing to embarrass him.

"I am here to make my confession to.. erm.. Father Holmes?"

The boy smiled kindly, indulgently, and said, "I am father Abraham. I have taken my vows, my son, though I look young, I assure you I will be more than happy to.."

"No. Not about your age. You do look awfully young, but I am afraid it will have to be Father Holmes. It is a matter of life or death--"

"In my line of work, it always is, that is exactly why I answered the call."

"Nice, but I still need, Father Holmes, if you don't mind..see--"

  
"Father Holmes is ... rarely... that is, he ...and most everyone prefer he refrain from the... stress of assisting those in confessional. He is somewhat... old school and we..."

Lestrade grinned, knowingly. "That bad is he?"

The boy wilted slightly and looked around as if afraid to speak, then whispered, "Trust me, you will prefer me. You have no idea--"

"Actually, I really do. Sorry again, but I really need him."

"I see. Well, if you insist. And if I may be so bold, sir, are you aware you have misplaced one of your shoes?"

Lestrade looked down as if to confirm this and nodded sadly. " It has been mentioned. Ta."

The boys eyes narrowed and he pointed at a series of wooden booths and said, "He will be with you at his first opportunity."

Lestrade waited in the tiny dark room. The seat was uncomfortable and the space smelled of old lady perfumes and oranges.

After twenty minutes the door to the other side opened and closed aggressively and the screen between them slammed open.

Greg had barely opened his mouth before an irritated voice prompted "Well? Get on with it?"

"Errr.. forgive me Father for I have sinned--"

"Stop. You are not Catholic, you smell of helicopter fuel, and are some sort of police officer. That tells me that having asked for me specifically and been warned off, no doubt, that you are here on some personal quest. Either you are one of my brothers minions, here to ask for favours in which case the answer is a resounding no, or you are that pathetic plod currently in charge of keeping the family idiot out of Bedlam and from all reports committing sodomy with my baby brother. Yes, I am aware he is in hospital, when is he not? No I have not seen him, if he has escaped again. No, I am not interested in some grand family group hug. And Yes, I do think you will go to hell for it and I don't care and despite your sins, the Heavenly Father forgives all, but I do not. So, if that wraps it up, say fifty Hail Marys each time you bugger him and sod off. Go in peace my son."

"Jesus Horacio Christ--"

"Add two Our Fathers."

"You really are one of them. But I have a message from your sister. She asked me to tell you..."

"Eurus? Oh. Well, that is an entirely different matter. This is ridiculous, where are my manners. Perhaps you would allow me to offer you a brandy in my study. ".

"What...really?"

"If you actually have a message from my dear baby sister, I would be most obliged to hear it."

The door next door opened and closed and his own door was opened with a click. Standing in the light, was a face he would have known anywhere. He had close clipped curls, the deep auburn hue of Mycroft, set upon the facial features of Sherlock. If the two brothers had a genetic mixmaster, Siger would have been the result if you added six inches.

At six foot six and with the rake thin Holmes frame stretched and draped in a black cassock, he did indeed resemble the angel of death. If he had worn a hood and carried a scythe, the picture would have been complete. Lestrade sucked in his breath at the piercing gaze that stared at him from a face that bore a scar that did not belong on a mild mannered priest.   This was a harder, slightly older Sherlock with the bearing and commanding demeanour of Mycroft and yet there was something else to this man as well

  This was a Holmes with no doubt to his own place in the world.   He was taller, leaner, and if humanly possible, more full of himself than the other two combined and thus there was something of Eurus about him indescribably    The main scar was livid red and half his face was etched with obvious shrapnel wounds.  And still, like Mycroft and Sherlock, this man was strikingly beautiful and the flaws simply added to him in a way because it made him interesting and not the image of the soft lived priest who never saw the real world.   

 

 

"Please, this way, if you will. Sorry my appearance is off putting, I was injured in the bombing of  Sayidat al-Nejat in Baghdad, Halloween mass of 2010. Many of my fellows were not as lucky as I. I refuse to have it made less prominent as a remembrance to them. My apologies if it makes you uncomfortable. " He said formality and turned and walked away, expecting the DI to follow.

A few minutes later, Lestrade sat in a cushy chair with a huge sniffer of brandy and a crackling fire warming his wet cold toes. The poor wet sock had begun to wear and his big toe stuck out of it. His trousers poked him where the woman at Sherrinford had stapled them at the ruined seam and here he sat, across from a man he had no notion existed until fifteen hours ago. This was the most comfortable he had been all day.

"So. My sister? Is she.. well?"

"When was the last time you heard from her, or saw her?"

"From her. Too long. About her, I have maintained some limited knowledge through mutual acquaintances."

"God, I hope that means, Mycroft and not one of the cannibals out there."

"I would rather speak to the cannibals, thanks just the same. Mycroft, hah, when I go to hell for my sins, if Satan really wants to torture me, he will only need to put me in a room with him. I will torture myself to madness and end my soul to get away from him."

"No love lost there then?"

"I love him dearly. See the funny collar? It is a rule to love all our brothers equally. We are somewhat strict on that. Oh, and I also owe the smarmy bastard my life and he will never ever let me live that down. So, Sherlock is fine and he is still poking merrily through other people's sorrow, Mycroft is busy making my job harder with his bloody minded wars and Somehow you managed to gain access to my dear sister, whom I actually like and of whom you convey message? Pray tell me what she requires of me and it is hers for the asking."

Lestrade shook his head, "Wait, back up, of your three siblings, she is the one you... get on with? You know she murders people don't you?"

He snorted and hummed in his throat as he sipped his brandy, "You are aware, that she was five years old when they took her? She was seven when Uncle put her in that place. They never once gave her a second thought, much less a second chance. They pretended she was dead, for years. No, worse, they pretended she never existed. And that is all she ever knew of life. Her mind... no, I will never forgive them that. It is the most evil singular thing I ever witnessed. It is one of the reasons I joined the Jesuit order. At fifteen, mind you. I knew here, they could never... ever... suck me into their bloody family business. Who knew, it is in our genetics or something and I would end up, stained by it all as well?" He smiled sardonically. "You are avoiding my question whilst drawing out our discourse for your policeman's curiosity ."

"Maybe a bit. If you barely know her, why do you like her and not them?"

"Do not assume that I do not know her. She was free to roam for a very long time before the big Cheese nibbler caught on. "  
"  
I have to go here and sorry, but you approve of murder but you hate them because they...are gay? Is that part of it?"

Siger sighed. He rolled his eyes so much like Mycroft it was comical. Then, he launched, "Sexual acts outside marriage, and for the purpose of anything other than procreation are a sin. Do you see? I do not care with whom or what you engage these activities that break our precious souls, in the forever it simply does not matter. The sin of this moment in time's fashion is not important, a couple hundred years ago it was witchcraft, then it was women wanting to be priests or the troubles in Ireland the sort of sin it is is of no importance. Do you understand? Whatever reasoning you use to dismiss the word of God, you end up like my brothers. One of them wants to be a God and the other seems hell bent sure that he already is one. A sin is a sin is a sin... all are an abomination to god. Murder, fornication, sloth, avarice... homosexuality is not a special sin... nor does god hate those who engage in them. He only hates the sin and asks that we repent. How is that even difficult? Confess, be truly sorry, ask to be forgiven and perform an act of contrition. It is not theoretical physics. We all sin, Detective Inspector. Mine might shock even you. Ask Mycroft who found Sherlock, so he could play hero and bring his dearly departed parental fulfilment obsession home? Ask him also, what he was really doing, anywhere near Baghdad in two thousand and ten? Now, if I have alleviated your immortal soul versus politically correct festival of ignorance, could you tell me my message?"

Lestrade gulped and nodded, horrified by Sherlock in a priest suit.

"She said, Go to confession, tell the priest that only the angel of death may absolve a brave man. I confess that I pray for the soul of that servant and for all of the horsemen. That was the whole of it, though now I know the horsemen means you lot... pretty creeped out before. Still a bit, I confess... oh sorry. Then she told me the Wind is at 270, and then Anthea said to tell you that all roads lead to Damascus and you would know."

Holmes folded his hands, differently to Sherlock's thinking pose but similar enough that Lestrade knew it for what it was. His three centre fingers folded under and his pinkie fingers and thumbs met as if separated they would be the international call me gesture, or perhaps a Texas longhorn hand signal. His thumbnails tapped his lips that matched Sherlock's as his forehead wrinkled like Mycroft's and his eyes looked as mesmerising as them both.

"Samarra... he wasn't suppose to go to Samarra. For God's sake, my brother is an imbecile. Alright, Tell Anthea to try. I will smuggle him out from there, provided he manages to make it that bloody far. Do not tell Sherlock. This will ... you know what he is like. This is his irrational childhood fear, though in retrospect, not so far from fact. I am too old for this stupidity. If it isn't one, it is the other. God, I hate sand and bloody rocks. Well go on. Drink up and get out. Oh, again, esprit de Sanyo and more Latin mumbling crap you will only pretend to understand, " he spit on his thumb and wiped it on Lestrade's head in the sign of a cross. "and look at Youuuuu....your little soul is all shiny again... go on... go spend years tarnishing it up again and expect me to save you just before you fart your last fart."

Lestrade was still reeling at being slobbered on and the only thing he could think of to say was, " Dead people fart too. All the time in fact..."

At that, Siger opened his mouth and took a deep breath to start another rant then mildly said "Oh...quite right... I will work on a better metaphor next time."

"Go to the hospital. Stay with him. Do you have a gun?"

"No, but..."

He stood and opened a desk drawer. "Here take one of mine. Your job is to keep Sherlock safe and not let him play. He must not leave. He will try when he realises Mycroft is missing. He worships the ground he walks on and he will insist he can go save him. Make him get well instead. Do you hear me?"

"We really cannot be talking about the same Sherlock. He sort of ... they do not get on...they are like chalk and cheese..."

"Shut up. Everything is a contest with them. Always was, but there's the key, isn't it? You cannot be that involved unless you care."

"How do you have a gun? You are a priest!"

"And you are a policeman and yet there you stand with an illegal firearm in your coat. Try not to lose it? Hmmm?"

 

They stood staring at each other for a moment then Father Holmes took Lestrade's arm and escorted him toward the door, talking the whole time. "Bye... and for God's sake, Where is your Shoe? What kind of Di loses his own bloody shoe, oh of course, one that would be seen with my brothers on a voluntary basis... why is he still here? Because he ...."

Lestrade did not catch the rest of it as a door was slammed in his face. He stood there in a daze for a moment then turned and bumped into the small boy who seemed much more like an actual priest after all. The child priest sighed in a familiar way and began an also familiar murmur of apologies and assurances that though Holmes could be abrasive, that he was also brilliant and a valuable member of.....

"It is fine, Father. I know the drill. I work with his brother. It is quite uncanny... out there, I am you... and I miss my shoe... what shall I do? "

  
The kind priest called a cab for the poor man who did not listen to his advice.

  
~~~~~~~~

No, actual priests were harmed in the making of this chapter. This is only me taking a few of Mycroft's character markers, adding in some Sherlock things and wondering what kind of priest that would be. This is what we got.

One thing mentioned here is actually real. The attack that Siger mentioned. It is a real world event and you may read about it here.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Baghdad_church_massacre.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Lestrade limped through the hospital on auto pilot. He was worried about John. He was worried about Sherlock. And now, he was worried that their slightly flirty helicopter ride this morning would be the last he would ever see of his exquisite Mycroft Holmes. His heart was not just breaking, it was sloughing off like an iceberg in the tropics.

A month ago, he had wanted to flirt with a man he found very attractive. The next day, that man's brother had offered to help him. That sounded reasonable. That did not seem like he was taking the ouija-board-open-the-gates-to-hell challenge, but he had to have done something. A short month ago he was a middle aged copper holding his job by the skin of his teeth and living in a discounted two hundred quid suit. He was now a one hundred and forty year old copper, in a three thousand pound suit that had staples for a seam and he only had one of the four hundred quid shoes Sherlock bought him. He could not get the other one back and he could not stand the thought of discarding a two hundred quid shoe, just because those rat bastards at Sherrinford would not give his back to him.

He was knackered and he had dealt with all he could and then some and he still had Sherlock to see. He sort of lurched brokenly into the room. His hearing just faded when the first words he heard were, "Where the Hell have you been? You should have been here nine hours ago and why are you wearing one shoe?"

The news was on and Lestrade heard the Words, bombing in Damascus and in Baghdad and it all just meant one thing to Greg.

"Sherlock. Damascus is the capital of Syria right?"

"What? Yes, .... back to what I was saying--"

"I met your brother today."

"Did Mycroft kiss you? Or is that how you lost your shoe? Is that why you have that stupid look on your face?"

"No. The other one. The scary one. If the border is closed from Iraq to Syria, Nobody can get in or out of Damascus... can they?" Lestrade stood there having hiccups and looking shambolic. " Thought It was all done. They took Mosul back, didn't they? Kicked The IS out. People going home and stuff?"

Sherlock started to complain obviously but Lestrade was seeming even more slow than usual. "It is one victory of a thousand. The Jihadi have orchestrated war since the day they converted. They are the dogs of war who never can allow the Sunni, the Shia'i or the Kurds, or the Pashtun and Hazara or the infidel, to rest. "

"So, this whole thing, this peace is not real?"

"Oh it is real. The question is how long lived it will be. Every day is a bonus in the sandbox. The only thing cheap is a human life ."

"So how possible would it be for a British citizen to make it from Baghdad to Damascus?"

  
"There are still ways. No civilian could do it, unguided, and right now, no special ops would be crazy enough to. Hell you have no idea who is on what team and unless you know what irksome Imam took what virgin princess as his third wife you have no hope and there are those who actually grew into war as their religion and they feel their entire purpose is to goad the other groups into fighting. ..." he trailed off and had no idea what had happened.

  
Lestrade was watching the telly and sobbing with quiet huffs and heaving shoulders. His hand covered his mouth and his eyes were locked to the news.

"Greg?"

Three hours later, Greg had poured every detail out to Sherlock. "Everyone made me promise not to tell you something and I cannot do this. I was fine until ... You need to call Siger and tell him not to go. And call Anthea and I don't know tell her.... Sherlock, I have messed up. I don't know what to do. "

Sherlock did not exactly comfort Lestrade. He did not scratch his back or pat his head, but he did not push him onto the floor either. It was good enough. Unburdened and his heart utterly in shreds Lestrade fell asleep against Sherlock's shoulder, wedged into the bed with him. Sherlock carefully lifted Greg's phone from the sleeping man's pocket.

He also found a laughably small, nine millimetre Beretta and strangest of all, staples holding Lestrade's suit trousers together. Sherlock spent most of his evening texting and monitoring news reports. They were not good. He was unable to make contact with Anthea or with any of her assistants, much less his brother.

Greg dreamed of worst case scenarios. He and Sherlock walking down a line of graves and they are there because he was not able to save any of them. He twitched awake at half three and moved to the chair.

"You should go home and rest. Get shoes."

Greg did not open his eyes as he muttered, "Can't. Know you. You will leave. My job to keep you here. Not let you run off to save them. I will not mess that up. Saw what happens if I do... nightmare bout it."

"Don't put much trust in that. So your plan is to walk around with one shoe and hold me at this tiny gunpoint to keep me here?" Sherlock held up the Beretta BU9 Nano and laughed. "This? I have seen sonic screwdrivers that look more scary!"

"I wasn't using that to keep you here, Mr. Brilliant. If Mycroft is ... does not come back... that may open the flood gates for his enemies and your own. Vulnerable in Hospital. That is so I can... " Greg sighed, knowing he sounded like an idiot.

"You? Protect me? With this? As kind as that sounds.... " Sherlock looked down at the various bulbous drains sticking out of him. "That is most kind, actually. And incredibly brave that you would wish to do so. "

"I am well chuffed you approve. Now shuddup. Mmm'tired."

Sherlock watched Greg twitch in his sleep and turned his focus about what to do about John.

 


	23. Chapter 23

The morning breakfast tray was delivered and Greg felt better for the sleep but he put in for time off and evidently the Chief assumed it had to do with his assignment from the day before, because he was cordially assured that he need not concern himself with trivialities. He wondered what Mycroft had said for him to receive such civilities and he felt it was a sign that luck was on his side. He would take any Miracle he could get in the wake of Yesterday's rollercoaster ride of horrors.

The coffee he was sipping unfortunately outlasted that bit of hope as a visitor arrived. Lestrade did not know her personally. They had only met once, when Mycroft had called him to step into the role of lead detective in the matter of her husband's suicide.

"Lady Smallwood. If you are here, the news must be more dire than I surmised. You remember Gregory Lestrade? "

She nodded and came toward Sherlock's bed, dignified and stoic. "I am here to inform you that at this juncture, we have confirmed that Mycroft is currently in the hands of a Rebel force. He and his entourage were captured and ISIL is demanding several concessions. None of which are tenable, as you can imagine."

"Oh, God no..." Greg had stood upon her arrival, but he now sunk back to the seat in slow motion and his hand went to his stomach as if to keep it under command physically.

Lady Smallwood, looking at Sherlock with reserved tears threatening, but with many years of practice at remaining dignified in the face of disaster, she continued, "Seven in his company were killed in the initial conflict. They then murdered any who were too injured to keep up. I felt it important that I come in person before you see it on YouTube. They beheaded an American reporter and our Sir Winston. It is sickeningly graphic and of the people we can identify, we are satisfied your brother is amongst those still alive. My deepest condolences to you and your family."

Lestrade paled and demanded, "Bit premature on that, isn't it? He's not dead yet!"

Sherlock held his hand up to silence Greg and confirmed what he suspected she would say next. "No rescue is planned then?"

"Not by us. We know the outcome of these circus acts. Trump is furious of course. This was a humanitarian mission. Mostly...but he had reps there. One a personal friend from what I understand. He does not have the experience to accept the inevitable outcome. They may go in guns blazing for all we know. The man is terribly unpredictable."

"Have you told Mummy?"

"Sir Edwin is with her now."

"Why did he actually go? He does not do the stumping for publicity act. The power plant was a cover, of course. Why Samarra?" Sherlock asked without his usual tone of accusation.

"He was hoping to negotiate the release of two young girls and their children. They are being held in Raqqa. It has been kept out of the media."

"Unlike the sixteen year old child bride from Germany...who are these Girls parents? Must be peerage or nobody would care." Sherlock interjected.

"They are the granddaughters of Lady Lillian FitzClarence."

"Oh. I see. Why would they leave? Benenden not living up to standards? "

Lady Smallwood looked uncomfortable. "You know of the difficulties we have had with certain... policies. These girls have known nothing but privilege and they want to do something shocking. I am rather sure that you can empathise with the call to forsake your lineage and taste rebellion?" She stated diplomatically.

"They should dye their hair and get piercings and idiotic tattoos of inspirational Japanese sayings, such as the one my nurse believes to mean 'life and death is beauty' but actually reads 'bad flute player, too much teeth' because the tattoo artist was evidently displeased with her youthful attempt to pay him with a method other than cash. What possesses a child to think a life like that will end well? How do they even find their way to the most inhospitable land in the world and form any desire to set their lives on fire?"

Not put off by Sherlock's random subject changes, Lady Smallwood explained further, "In the cases of these girls, there were five who snuck away from home during holiday and actually made it out of country. Two others were caught and returned to their families. Two were later killed in the fighting, and they were older and most likely the ones who influenced the others. The sisters, now all of 13 and 15, married within days of arrival. The friend, also 15 escaped with her second husband. But Clair and Vicky were captured and face the death penalty. They have been missing for two years. The youngest has one child and says she is again pregnant. The older one has one child, one died and she too may be pregnant, however after her second husband was killed in the battle for Mosul, they were left to fend for themselves in the rubble of the old city and have done what they needed to for survival. For that crime alone, they are meant to be stoned."

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table. "But he went to Samarra. He knows ... the bloody story. He knew what it would do to me. How could he? He hates legwork."

 

"They are children and Mycroft hoped he could tempt the powers that be to show mercy as he held the power to assure the restoration of civilians access to electricity and jobs. In concession he hoped they would be willing to avoid the negative press if these pretty blond aristocratic girls were delivered to his care. Sherlock, he has been on far more sensitive missions. He expected to encounter no major difficulties. The youngest was married by auction. At eleven years old. How could he not answer the desperate pleading of a friend?"

"This has Mummy's fingerprints all over it. You are aware the family idiot is attempting to make his way to Damascus to meet up for old times? He has exactly zero chance for success now. Where is Anthea?"

Lady Smallwood nodded. " Sigerson was in the wind before we knew the nature of the the situation. They were targeted because it will devastate forthcoming investment in the area. Those suffering whilst trying to rebuild will be made to endure more hardships as a result of this action. The jihadists have scored a huge victory and hope to rally with the public executions of influential westerners knowing full well that their demands are far too ambitious to be taken seriously. Sigerson will realise the futility of further action. He is well versed in the local culture."

"And let me guess, I am supposed to just sit around waiting to watch Mycroft's head get lopped off whilst his beloved spooks twiddle their thumbs and hope the Americans have the bottle to wade in? I may be rethinking my opinion of this uncouth blow hard. At least he is not afraid to show some fangs. Magnussen was right about one thing. We have become a nation of herbivores," Sherlock said with sarcastic frustration.

"You are recovering. Of course I would have called you in otherwise. For that matter I wish I still had AGRA. They would be on their way no matter his opinion of free agents. But, though I have little hope of a good outcome here, I have learned to never underestimate Mycroft Holmes and I will believe he is helpless not one moment before I see his head separate from his body. Not one moment before."

Lestrade stood. "You know these two. You know this one will never let this rest. You may as well accept that. Why don't you just offer to give him a hand. Even I can predict what is churning through that head of his. No stopping him, yeah?"

Sherlock glanced at Greg with pride and thanks. "He is probably right, you know. And he really is not that clever so, I have to assume you also may suspect."

Lady Smallwood sighed. "Alright. What do you need."

"Well, first, I need John Watson. Once we get that far, I will get you a list. You can begin sorting some papers for us." Sherlock said with a pleased air.

Lady Smallwood looked at Greg. "Up to you? Will you be needing a packet too?"

Greg took a deep breath to say hell no when his mouth suddenly made the syllable, "Yes."

Sherlock frowned and his nose scrunched in confusion. "How can you help? You have never even been out of England other than to see family in France and Holiday in Scotland."

" That is not true. I went to Octoberfest in Munich once," Lestrade stated defensively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes then dripped a sarcastic, "Oh for Gods sake... it is a desert. Beer guzzling and monofootwear skills may be less appreciated in that arena?"

Greg grinned, still knowing he was welcome. "That's good. Means I will be the best at it. "

Lady Smallwood waved as her phone rang and she began directing the list of requirements. "Timeline?"

Sherlock looked at his torso and poked at one of the drains. "Twenty hours to drop. Including picking up my Doctor."

"Bring him home. I will put my flutter on you. Oh, and do call your Mother. I am not going to explain this to her. She is all yours."

"Chicken?" Sherlock hissed.

She stopped and turned. "Mycroft is still afraid of her. I know the legends."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, sounding put upon.

Lestrade watched Sherlock dial the phone with much more force that was necessary and put on a false placating tone as he greeted, "Hello, Mummy. As you probably know Fatso is about to lose his head and the village idiot has gone to pray for his soul. I am going to have to go and fix it before they cock it up completely...".

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

To have expected the smooth carefree life to turn up roses for them had never crossed his mind, but he had not expected to have just had a row with a physician over Sherlock deciding to leave. He was assured that he was signing Sherlock's death warrant from infection and flat out refused to remove the drains, which would need to be emptied every few hours. But, they would hopefully have a Doctor along so Greg stood firm, despite the name calling and the threats to have his job as a policeman.

Sherlock's chest was wrapped up like a mummy and several prescriptions came with warnings that any deviation from the instructions would lead to the equivalent of premeditated murder. Knowing the bed rest part was as likely to happen as Sharks in a tornado, Lestrade figured they would be long dead before there was any concern for infection. It was like listening to a lecture on the evils of smoking and how it would give you cancer when you had just had a car smash up and had hours to live at best.

Sherlock was not in good shape. He was as weak as Lestrade had ever seen him. His balance was gone to shit and he was obviously in a huge amount of pain, though he would not admit it.

The delay did have the benefits of showers and fresh clothing, delivered by a tiny bright eyed pixie with hair short and spiky and a habit of popping her gum, which Lestrade had not seen someone do since he was a teenager. She seemed to not realise it was no longer in fashion and used it as almost a punctuation to her sentences.

She brought Lestrade a pair of dun coloured tactical trousers with an unbelievable number of pockets and a pair of lace up boots that nearly reached his mid calf.

Sherlock was given similar trousers but his boots were more combat and less paratrooper. "Is this supposed to be funny?" He held them up looking offended.

"Lady Smallwood said I should find you something you could not possibly lose. Crack pop..pop. Found those in surplus. Crack. Blow. Pop. Pop. Problem?"

Sherlock had to turn away to hide his snicker.

"From what era, last time I saw these in a picture, England had a bloody King. ".

"Mmmm gotta love vintage. Crack. Crack. Later taters!" Her trainers made screech noises as she drug her feet up the hall.

"Agatha. She is Lady Smallwood's New A. Think I like this one."

"Agatha... Anthea... is it a club?"

"Oh yes. Very exclusive. The married to their work club. You have seen the wedding band Mycroft wears on the wrong finger? Anthea does too. Means they are operatives and not just paper shufflers. The 'A' designates they are being groomed for position. A is the last false name you wear in The Circus. Anthea will succeed Mycroft and she will choose one of her assistants as her new A." Sherlock explained as he struggled into his trousers.

"So Anthea has assistants?"

"She has ... it varied. Eight or fifteen. But some of those are just secretaries. Like Vivian Norbury was. The important ones are Beth, Betty, Bobbi and Beatrix. The rest are new. What did you think she is always doing on that phone of hers? Playing Minecraft or Angry Birds. Mycroft may be The British Government...but Anthea keeps the Obliquity of the Ecliptic from crashing the universe."

"So they cannot get married? Like priests and nuns?"

"They can have sex. They can get married but only to vetted, approved people. Most do not, however," Sherlock clarified.

"Lady Smallwood was married?"

"Yes. Of course she came up as a strategist, not an operative. In her day, women were not ... if they were operatives they were expected to serve their country then go make babies. My mother was brilliant and should have been in the position my uncle served. But she met my Father and though she stayed on for a few years, when she became pregnant with Mycroft, it was expected that she would retire. That was just how it was done. Still is. She stayed on as a consultant. Worked with Rudy for years as a freelancer. All that time, she was one of his most trusted advisors and he lied to her about Eurus. Rudy was my Father's brother and he cannot believe he did this to them."

"Must be horrible. How did Sigerson know?"

"I don't know. God probably told him. "

"Just curiosity, What was Mycroft's A?"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. Egotistical Arse."

Lestrade could not help but snicker. If he ever got to spend time with Mycroft again, there would be Camelot themed gag gifts for the rest of their lives.

The helicopter ride should have been the easy part. It did start out that way.

Lestrade had a naggingly bad feeling. Sherlock picked up on it and demanded to know what the problem was.

"Just. You sure about this. Taking John? Could mess him up more. And, if what he fears is true... and it is true... wake up with our throats slit."

"Yes. This is going to be like going home for John. This will recharge him like nothing else can. But, if he is a sleeper, well, we need to flip his off switch. Which is why we are taking my sister as well.

That was about the time they were turned around. The prison was not accepting visitors at that time because it was in the middle of an unplanned civil war. Sherlock groaned and told the pilot to fly on. He was very unhappy about it, but he did as he was told.

The pilot hovered near the island. There were seven other choppers on the beach but he aimed for the helipad. Now he was getting angry. "They are shooting at us. Those are our guys and they are shooting at us!"

Sherlock leaned forward. And sure enough the big guns were pointed at them.

Sherlock switched frequencies. "Sherrinford tower, stand fire under the authority of Mycroft Holmes. Do you copy? Over?"

He repeated himself but got no answer.

The pilot said across the headset. "Going in hot, guys. Going to give the bastards a piece of....oh fuck....."

  
Lestrade had not been afraid. He was having a bit of a good time. But, there is another time when you are really glad that you are wearing brown trousers and apparently the worst of these kack-your-pants moments is when your pilot says those special words and the helicopter begins to spin out of control.

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Lestrade tensed then he felt his stomach wobble as they twisted from the sky and he felt the first hitch as he realised he and the pilot were strapped in, but Sherlock was not. He watched him fly upwards or maybe it was downwards as the tail struck the parapet and he prayed that when they burned, they would not feel it. Somehow his eyes locked with Sherlock's for a second and it stretched into a lifetime of regrets and joys and moments they had not appreciated at the time.

There was a loud noise and another and Sherlock flew away and like a damp Tesco bag he bounced again and again. Each jolt was pain and Lestrade closed his eyes, not wanting to see the last moments.

" _Look at youuuuuu, your soul is all shiny and clean..."_ he heard far alway. He hoped it was true, knowing with acceptance that he was about to find out.

There was a loud crack, then horrible pain. His eyes flew open but all was a blur. His heart beating was all he could hear and the pain was indescribable and crackled his whole being into the silence.

He sucked in a deep breath, wondered how much he had to drink and why someone was washing his face. Then he vomited.

"There you are. Come on Greg. Back with us? Come on. I know it hurts. Yeah, you are going to hate this more but..."

Someone decide to focus a white sun on his retinas about then and he whimpered like a puppy and tried to get away, then he let his eyes open and realised he was not burned to death. "Sherlock? How bad is he?" He managed to mumble leaning over and spitting more sick onto the floor.

"Well, he is not good. We are going to have words about that, but he is..."

"Oh for God's sake, John. I am fine. Banged up a bit. Happier now that I see you are not bloody dead... "

"I told you, it looked worse than it is." John and Sherlock were in bickering mode.

"Well, it looked like he was dead."

"Head wounds bleed. It is what they do. He needs X-ray and so do you!"

"They give them free at airports now. "

Lestrade looked around and realised they were in Sherrinford. There was the occasional pop of gunfire and there were around thirty people milling around on the other side of the room. Lestrade had no idea what they were doing, but they seemed awfully busy at it.

He sat up and was struck with terror because smiling at him, standing just behind John was a ghost. He tried to shake his head but it did not fade. "Oh god... I think I do need a hospital. Because I see..."

The ghost stepped forward a bit and bent towards him.

"John? Jim Moriarty is standing right behind you. That has got to be really bad if I am seeing..."

The apparition spoke, "Awwwwww. I am touched. Really I am. You remembered little ole meeeeeeee? " He fanned his face as if he were going to break out in tears of joy.

John turned to the man who could not be there and said, "Stop it. He is concussed and You. Are having way too much fun with that."

Jim looked snotty and offended. "I did save his life. But, fine." He leaned forward as if to share a delightful secret. "Sherlock screamed. Out loud. It was prrrrrriceless. Thought he was in Hell. I cannot wait to tell Siger that. He is going to be thhhhhrillled"

"Oh God, just kill me now!" Sherlock muttered in disgust.

Jim offered his head for inspection, " Go on, I know you want to. And don't count your gators before they bite, Sherlock. We are not out of this just yet."

Lestrade poked at Jim then retracted his hand immediately. He was solid. "How did you?"

Jim grinned as if pleased by the attention. "Well it wasn't me on the roof, obviously. "

Sherlock cursed the words, "Bloody cousins, not twins." As if it were a personal affront to him.

Jim shrugged his shoulders and sighed happily. "Just so."

Lestrade sat with his mouth open. "It really was you! I saw you yesterday. "

At that Sherlock hobbled over and looked even more affronted. "You knew? And yet you did not tell me? Any other details you failed to mention? Really, Garvey, for a police officer your observational skills took a dip before the crash. What can we expect now... ugh... this is heinous!"

"Our pilot?" Lestrade managed pretty sure he was going to be sick again.

Jim answered. "Oh he is fine. Chatting with one of the cannibals. Bit disappointing, that lot. I thought they would be more interesting. Tsk tsk."

Lestrade shook his head and if it had not been so painful he would have suspected again that he was dead and they were all just playing with him.

Jim's phone rang and he answered. He spoke for a few moments and grinned at them all like a maniac. Exactly like a maniac.

"Well, that's our ride. If we can just make it to the beach. I think we can make our dashing ride into the sunset. Shall we? Eurus, darling, get the kids. It's going to be past their bedtime if we don't leave the carnival now and you know how cranky they get for school in the mornings if we indulge them."

Eurus smiled at him fondly and nodded, speaking softly to a dozen men in white prison clothing. They all queued up dutifully and it was both creepy and somehow charming.

Lestrade looked at John's face, questioning. He shrugged and sighed, resigned. "It is a very long story. No time at the moment. Can you stand? I can carry you if I have to."

Jim pulled something out of his pocket. "Or you can stay here, fight the various factions with this? So glad you came armed. Hard to orchestrate a good prison break without weapons. Even just this teeny-tiny .... god this is adorable. May I keep it? I have a collection you see... and... oh... we need to move....like now. Out out out. Come on ... chop chop... down the steps. Daddy is taking you all on the pretty helicopter rides now....don't dawdle. Mummy?" He held out his arm to Eurus and she smiled as she hooked her arm through his.

  
"Have you two... lost your mind? We are getting in a tin can... with him?"

"Well, it isn't like we can drive ours. It has a flat tyre or something. Just come on... I will have to explain later. " Sherlock headed for the door walking stiffly and limping.

"Yeah... great. I hope to Saint Patrick that I am drunk by the time you do. " He happened to look toward the great window, overlooking the sea, and there on the ledge, sat his shoe. He grabbed it and held onto it like a lifeline, as John helped him hobble down toward the beaches of hell.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Getting to the beach was not a simple matter. People were shooting at them and Lestrade had no idea who was shooting or why. He also had trouble focusing on the stone stairs and had to use the wall as a guide. That wall offered some protection from the gunfire. But on the beach was a beefy blond with a remarkably large cigar in his mouth and a Steve McQueen troll face, who had an odd long rifle with an elaborate looking scope and almost every time he fired, a body would crash down from the tall parapet above and bounce into them.

Somehow, still twitching dead bodies, raining from above was the most horrific thing he had ever seen.

It was an almost comedic exodus of the people in the white Pajamas across the grey sand as they scrambled toward two Chinooks and five Blackhawks.

The part that was not funny was that from time to time one of the people would lurch, stiffen and red would bloom on their ridiculously thin white sleepwear and down they would go. Each time, John would leave his side and check the victim. Some he would order to a helicopter and some he would stand and shake his head.

A man with a long beard fell and Eurus began screaming. Jim tried to get her into the helicopter but she would not leave the fallen man. The sand near her erupted with little dry bursts of sand plumes and Jim ran to her side, screaming too as he scooped her up in his arms and began to run toward the one shiny blue Blackhawk amongst the other dull black vehicles.

"Doctor! Leave them and get in! She has been shot!" Jim said with real anger and fear blooming on his face.

Lestrade and Sherlock were right behind and nobody was strapped in as the man with the rifle entered the copilot seat and they were rising into the sky.

They took up and out of range of the people shooting at them as Jim said, "Oh... time to pay for that you naughty little toads."

Jim had his phone out and he was cackling and pushing buttons at a high rate of speed. Lestrade looked down as they flew over his crash sight. The helicopter they had arrived in had burned and was still smouldering, but he felt lucky that he was not down there amongst the wreckage as a bit of greasy char. Someone had pulled he and Sherlock out of there and that someone appeared to be Jim Moriarty. The world had gone mad.

A muffled 'whullp' sound reached his ears just after tufts of whitish smoke puffed out the windows of the prison. There was no collapse or spectacular fireball, but obviously Jim had blown up Sherrinford.

In the mean time, John and Sherlock were busy comforting Eurus. One of the men she had lined up, held her still and petted her hair kindly, as Sherlock assisted, John was seeing to a wound on her side.

Greg had no idea what was going on and his head throbbed. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was yesterday morning and he was on a quick jaunt with Mycroft and just dreading a silly chat with John and the mad sister. The mad sister was crying right now and mourning the loss of her fallen children and in pain from a bullet that had hit her on the hip. She was not in any state of histrionics but she was distressed.

He did not mean to fall asleep. He woke to two men carrying him on a comfortable medical trolley and once he was indoors, they moved him to a pad of cushions and left him alone. He watched John Watson, acting commanding and perfectly at ease in the centre of this chaos, he was in a sort of triage mode and sorting patients by priority. He seemed a far contrast from the man he had come upon yesterday, wedged into a corner and unable to speak.

Lestrade did not trust his brain right now. This had to be some extended nightmare. Sherlock woke him up, every time he went to sleep. His head hurt so badly, he wished someone would lop it off and that made him cry, wondering if Mycroft had already experienced that reality.

He wondered if Mycroft's ghost would come to visit him. Jim had.

The next time he woke, he was in a different room and Sherlock was next to him in a bed with a sling on his arm and he smelled rather ripe. Though truthfully they both stunk and his head still hurt but felt clearer. He took a deep breath and groaned as he realised his head itched like ants were biting it. He reached up and encountered what felt like thorny stickers just before his hand was slapped.

"Leave your stitches alone. Good Lord we need one of those doggy shields to keep you from the bloody things. I will tie you up, you know," Sherlock stated with no intention of empathy.

"Thirsty. Time is it?"

"Time for more paracetamol. How do you feel?"

"Confused? What the hell happened? Helicopter crashed? Then it all went a bit pear-shaped. Where are we?"

"Oh god. We were on our way to get John. The new crew were basically trained by The good doctor Mengele and were secretly torturing the residents. Jim is alive, evidently my brother-in-law, saved us from the nazis and from the invading Army of Russian ninja turtles who decided that my sister was responsible for the computer code that Jim swears he never completed. But he did sell the nonexistent fairytale to a sensational number of monstrously evil acquaintances and left them holding the bag.

"So, one of these Dale Carnegie graduates came to kidnap her, but Jim brought mercenaries led by one Sebastian Moran, colonel, retired , who was meant to kill me a few years back, but just pulled my Arse out of a burning wreck, yours too.

"Jim is now our knight in flaming armour and defeated the evil hordes and rescued his fair princess. Both of them are fruit loops, mad as a bag of ferrets, in lurve, made for each other and met in a bloody prison, whilst you and I are faking a relationship because those we love are beyond oblivious to us. Gomez and Morticia, on the other hand have adopted a hoard of people eaters and fire bugs as well as their former zombie guards... who refer to them as Mummy and Daddy.  The letters FML come to mind.

"We are both injured, and staying in the luxury home of Jim Moriarty who is one of eight, catholic so they all have James as their Christian name. This is James Fitzgerald, whom we have dealt with before. James FitzWillam who was a depressed actor and terrified of being taken by the various mob bosses alive, topped himself on the bloody roof of Bart's, tricking me into burning my own heart out because that Jim was in love, or at least obsessed with me."

"Jesus, this just keeps getting better..."

"Yes, and on top of that, I spent two years of my life, wasting my time, clearing out the rubbish of Jim's Magic Kingdom, making his life easier and his operation more effective and almost legitimate. While John grew to hate me and best of the best, my eldest brother could play 'off with his head' at any moment and the brother sent to rescue him has disappeared.

"Askabanford has been destroyed. John has been fixed and you have been broken because I have told you all of this every hour, on the hour for the last ten, and we still have six more to go before John will let me let you sleep and I am trying to not go insane, but if we do get to Samarra and my brother has been beheaded and we missed saving him by an hour or three, I know that I will be unable to maintain any semblance of sanity. "

Lestrade thought for a moment, "The good news is...I did find my shoe?"

Sherlock sighed again and pinched his brow with his good hand. "Yes, you have mentioned that. You will next realise you left the other one in my hospital room."

"Shit. I did."

 

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

John entered the room with a quick curtesy knocking but no pause for invitation. Greg was sitting up by this time and he was taken aback by the complex transformation he could read in John's face. He had not seen this jovial, laid back John Watson since his early days with Sherlock. The man exuded calm, competent, inner peace and joy in the world.

"You did not even wait. Why knock? I could have been buggering Garfield silly and you just came strolling in ... you are supposed to be the keeper of all things socially acceptable but--"

John threw his head back and laughed at  
Sherlock's rant. "I told you no sex for at least forty-eight hours...and if you don't learn his bloody name, I can almost guarantee you will be not getting off for far longer than that. Besides, I am bunking in here. It was that or a dorm rack down in the village of the damned, though Mummy Dearest assures me that her "children" are perfectly harmless at this time, I am not that much of a betting man. The two ambulatory cannibal blokes... nnnnope. I am too knackered to be sleeping with one eye open. Plus, I know something of Colonel Moran, and he would have me drunk and playing "shoot the shit" until the wee hours. And our version includes actual firearms and not mere conversation. Plus, I need to clean up a bit, and so do you. We have been invited to dinner, and considering those two nutters saved our lives today, I feel it only polite to accept. God, this has been a fantastic day. ".

John said all of this while making himself at home and lathering his face with shave cream.

"Oh? Has it? Let me see, I leave my deathbed to break you out of prison, where you landed yourself for trying to kill my brother. I am shot out of the sky by angry Russians, thrown around until my arm is fractured, nearly burned to death, rescued by the dead man who wrapped you in Semtex a few years back, told my sister has not only married him, but been instrumental in his successful implementation of his unique criminal efforts. At some point it will fall to me to explain this all to Mummy Holmes, and Mycroft is in the city of Samarra, Iraq attempting to keep his appointment and lose his head. In the mean time I am here, babysitting my delightful brain injured companion whilst you get to do all the interesting things! No, it has not been any sort of a... Good Day, thanks. And my arm hurts, can I please have some morphine, as you have passed it out like jelly babies to everyone else?"

"You have a minor fracture and some bruises, not bullet holes. And I think you don't need it so much as want it. I gave you the Co-codomol and that should more than suffice. If you are having pain beyond what you have told me about or if something has changed, I will be more than happy to examine you again and reevaluate," John offered, slight exasperation mixing with worry as he stepped back out of the ensuite and met Sherlock's gaze demanding a builshit cease fire.

Sherlock sighed and looked away.

John stepped forward and, towel in hand, he wiped his face and hands. "What are you not telling me?"

Sherlock threw off the covers and lifted his shirt. It was then, that the source of the odour was made clear. He pulled a folded towel out to reveal, he had done far more damage to himself than he had let on. "I thought it would stop. Everyone else was more injured. I can't be sick. I can't let Mycroft down. I don't have time. They could be killing him now."

"Oh... Sherlock..."

Lestrade could not help it, he gagged. John gave him a look that told him, he did not have time for that sort of nonsense. "I will leave you two to get sorted. Think I will try out my sea legs if that is alright?"

"Yeah, tell them we will be there when we get him back together?"

Greg nodded and closed the door softly. He had no idea where he was or where he was going, but the smell of food led him down the stairs and to a large kitchen that was a mixture of medieval hearth cooking and microwave and it was abustle.

From behind him, Jim solicitously asked, "I do hope you are recovering comfortably, Detective Inspector. My wife is looking so forward to her first little dinner party."

Greg looked down at his host and replied, "Much better, thanks. Not so sure about Sherlock. Got tossed about a bit more in the crash than he let on. John is probably giving him leather, about now, for it. Said they may be a bit late."

"I see. Sorry to hear that. Will it set back your journey to rescue his oaf of a brother, you think?" Jim asked casually but a shadow of trouble crossed his face.

Greg bit his tongue at the slight to Mycroft. He was at this man's mercy and if memory served that was a shallow puddle. "No idea. Had to cut out pretty quick. He's a bit of a shambles. Afraid my Stomach has been bit touchy since I hit my head. That reminds me. They told me that you pulled our arses literally out of the fire. Thank you. I mean that."

"Well... I didn't burn my fingers. I just directed a bit. Good thing I got there first. Baron Maupertuis is still angry with me for letting it slip to a priest I know, where a certain dead celebrity detective was being held and tortured. Hold grudges those Ruskies ...worse than the Irish." He grinned mischievously.

Lestrade had no idea what to say to that. "So, you been married long?"

"Five years this Christmas. Best thing that ever happened to me, my princess."

"How'd that work, exactly. I mean, thought you were gay and her... sequestered away...must have been..."

"Oh, I am gay... but she is... I don't know. She allows me my, companions. But, until recently she was not really locked up on anything more than a nostalgic basis. That was her home. What she knew. She came and went as she pleased. I have kept a low profile since my tragic death, took me a while to realise she had crossed Mycroft. He was not a happy boy. She did not know, you see. She hated Sherlock because he never came. Even after he was all grown up he never came to see her. She was quite bitter. But once she realised that she was wrong, it broke her a little. She got lost in the sky. But, the only one who did not give up, was Sherlock. A misunderstanding healed. Happy ending. And here we are. ".

Lestrade was really having a hard time reconciling his image of Jim with this reality. Jim sounded remarkably sane.

"I have to ask. How did you get into the illegal stuff. You're no addict and as brilliant as you are... just seems a waste."

Jim nodded and smiled, obviously flattered. "I grew up smack in the middle of the troubles. There is no way out. By the time I was come up, the only out was to keep going. Trying to understand Ireland, is a bit like trying to understand the land of Jihad. No outsiders can. They can read about it, but it is not real to them. It takes hundreds of years of it in your bones for it all to make sense. You are heading into something that has festered for thousands of years. I don't care about the oldest. I would dance on his grave without a care. The other three, though. Different matter entirely. I would prefer Sherlock stay out of it, for her sake. Siger? He can fend for himself. He is God's own. A pure soul. But, my unsolicited advice is, If you actually love Sherlock, then distract him. Keep him here. Do not let him keep his appointment in Samarra."

"Not sure the fires of hell could stop him," Greg said with complete conviction.

"Can I ask your opinion on something that has been on my mind? I need to know what to expect from him. Seems fine today... but yesterday. Did she fix him? Did she break him in the first place? John?"

Jim blew his cheeks out, as if he had no idea. "Do you ask any easy questions?"

"Sorry... I just don't know what to think. I have seen many facets to him and they do not make it easy. I want to trust him..."

"But... there is always a but. I originally thought him to be a dullard. A boor. Unremarkable in every way. My wife scares you, yes?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Watson scares me."

"Okay. Not what I was expecting..." Lestrade admitted.

"We all play a persona. You play reliable good guy. I play a silly psychopath...wait...I am that too... but I am crazy like a fox and it keeps the rabble away. John...dear sweet kind, caring, doctorly, hero... don't be fooled by his pretty camouflage. He is rather in love with your beau, you know. My better half, she tweaked some bits. She has restored him to factory settings as best she can, but do not forget that she can only bring out something that already exists within them. You push the right buttons and a bomb explodes, but it has to be a bomb in the first place? Not telling you what to do with that. Just telling you to understand it. ".

Lestrade nodded solemnly.

"There you are. Dinner is almost served. " Eurus held out her hand to Jim. She was transformed into a lady of the manor. Gone were her stringy tresses and prison garb. Though her movements showed she was in discomfort, her hair was styled in an elegant tumble of upswept curls and her makeup was done in such a way that for the first time Lestrade could see her startling resemblance to Sherlock.

"You look, lovely," Greg blurted.

She blushed and asked if he could check on his roommates. Lestrade explained the possible delay but quickly decided he could do with a bit of freshening himself. He made his way back to the room and opened the door without a second thought.

He startled Sherlock and John, who were kissing.

John looked like a deer in the headlights as he softly muttered, "Shit..."

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

The dining hall was a rough hewn space with a long wide table of spilt logs, warped from years of waiting for diners to be in attendance. The room was unadorned with chandelier or festive dinnerware, yet the austerity held its own elegance.

The wine was poured and Eurus was all smiles and excitement as she raised her glass and looked down the length of the table at her husband. "Can we have toasts, Jamie? I love toasts."

Jim smiled at her and got to his feet. " You are the princess. Anything you desire in this world my darling. " He looked at his guests and cleared his throat. His head bobbed from side to side as if cracking his neck. "This world is a bloody cold place. I have played my part to make it colder for some. But today, I brought my bride home to stay. Few things in my life have ever given me reason to believe that there is any purpose to our days. But a few years ago, a man gave me five minutes that changed my whole world. I do not like him much, but, I still want it said, that this one time, I pay homage to him. At this moment he is in danger. If he lives, may he live well. If he dies, may he die a brave man. To Mr. Mycroft Holmes, may his soul rot in heaven, because heaven's a boring place and he will fit in. I thank him for my Eurus."

Jim sat down and everyone drank to Mycroft.

Sebastian stood and smiled. "I cannot complete with those lovely words. But, we lost two good men today. I just want to drink a toast to Micky and Alex, God's rest to them and may the death of warriors come to us all. To the lads."

There was a pause as people waited for the next person to stand. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I think we would all be happier if I remain seated. But, I make this toast to the unexpected. I am used to predicting the outcomes of life on a somewhat regular basis, but sometimes I am still Surprised. Even I could never have seen the extraordinary events of the last twenty-four hours. May we all be cursed or blessed with lives filled with the extraordinary." Sherlock raised his glass to signal he was finished.

John stood next. He took a deep sigh. "I want to build on that, just a bit. I have to say that yesterday I had given up. Not just that, I wanted it to end. By any means possible. If it had. I would have missed this day. I have not had the opportunity to do field surgery for so long, I had forgotten what it meant. The rush of saving a life, of easing pain. I am bloody exhausted and I feel alive for the first time in a very long time. Some of that is my fault. Some of it is yours...and yours." He pointed at Jim and then at Sherlock. Everyone chuckled. "But, every person at this table had some part in reminding me... what really matters. So to good friends old and new and my thanks to each of you for the honour of your company."

Lestrade sighed. He had no idea what to say. He stood reluctantly and said softly. "We never know what our last thoughts will be. I came pretty close today. Mine were, that I hoped there was something beyond so I could see people I care about again. It just kind of dawned on me that one day, when this gawdawful headache fades, there will come another day just like this one and I won't be as lucky as I was today. I want every person at this table to know, they are going on the list of people that I hope to see again. Cheers."

Eurus stood finally and smiled softly. " To my husband who taught me that I am loveable. To his protector for his loyalty. To Sherlock for not giving up. To Lestrade for listening and to John Watson for saving my children today when some would have left them to die for their sins. Every person matters or nobody does. The threads of life are sticky and fate is the mask of fools."

Jim clapped enthusiastically as if she had just declared world peace. The others joined in and Eurus bowed in delight.

Dinner was served. Cigars were smoked. Brandies were sniffed.

Happy memories floated on the whims of an east wind.

Three men retired to a large bed and in the quiet darkness, one asked, "So, anyone want to explain to me how the kissing started?

A soft snore sounded immediately from one side and was answered by an equally fake snore from the other. In the dark, Greg Lestrade smiled and was not fooled at all.


	29. Chapter 29

John was the first up and awake. Lestrade rolled toward him as he was getting out of bed. "Too bloody early."

John dressed and said quietly, "Yeah. But, I have patients to see and meds to pass. Who knew having an illegal drugs smuggler as your chemist would make patient care so easy. No paperwork and nobody going to sue.. it is brilliant. May ask him for a job when we get back."

"Always knew you had a dark side. NHS rogue... could be dangerous?" Greg teased.

John shook his head grinning as he pulled a military green jumper over his head. He looked completely serious as he looked both ways as if telling a secret. "No more dangerous than the NHS these days. Seriously, mate. The red tape has consumed us all. Worse than your lot. The backseat drivers are killing people. "

Lestrade sympathised, " And the answer to every problem is more paperwork. Nobody gets to work any more. We just document busy work and blame it on the IT guys. "

"Yeah. Breath of fresh air this. Way my Grandfather did it. Working when he turned 90... no chance of that now. Paperwork doesn't get you, the patients will. "

"Hope you are not being prophetic... village of the damned seems a good monicker."

"It is on the door of the Barracks... he keeps his own standing army of misfits down there... but it is not a World War Two bunker, you know? Got a mess hall, pool tables, sauna, weight room. I mean it is not private, but it is military modern. Not bad. Actually could see myself... happy there. Who knows. Maybe ."

"What about himself? He would miss you?" Lestrade met his eyes as he nodded towards Sherlock's still sleeping figure.

John blushed, his jaw tightened and he looked away. " He's got you." John rose and headed to the door.

"One more thing ... what about Rosie-posy? You have not even asked about her. ?"

Anger and hurt flared and John gave him a look of betrayal. "She isn't mine. Not any more. I don't deserve her. Never did."

Lestrade sat up to debate that but John simply closed the door and was gone.

"You idiot. It was going so well." Sherlock mumbled having obviously been listening.

"What's he mean... not his. Mary cheat on him, because it must have been with a John Watson twin. Kid looks like his ...". Lestrade trailed off and looked at Sherlock.

"Mary was far from perfect. But Rosamund is the biological daughter of John. There is no doubt at all. Mycroft tested." Sherlock added.

"So he just handed over his daughter to Mycroft, because he is the best choice for her?" Lestrade asked in pure aggravation.

"Mycroft is under orders to find her suitable parents within his circle. So she will have every advantage in life. He was not intending to keep her himself. Not at first." Sherlock said the last part almost a whisper.

Greg smiled, then said, "You. It is you isn't it? You are going to adopt her. That is a great--"

"I cannot. They will not allow me to. Not even Mycroft could pull those strings. We tried."

"What do you mean? You are her Godfather?"

Sherlock sighed and sat up, unwilling to continue this conversation with his face half sunk in a cuddly pillow. "Think. I am a single man, arrest record fairly heavy, addict, no apparent gainful employment, doing dangerous work, keeping ungodly hours in a mouldy infested flat that probably has arsenic wallpaper still there under the current offerings. I have no hope, as the title Godfather is quaint and honorary but is of no legal standing"

"Mrs. Hudson? Too old, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Molly then. She could. "

"Perhaps. But she is single and though she may agree. What happens when she gets married? He may not be as thrilled, much less be willing to... put up with me. He could send me away and there would be nothing I could do. John's sister has a record for drink driving so same obstacle as I have. The only options are to bring John home. To me. Or get Molly to adopt Rosie and then marry me once the crown is out of the picture. She is considering my offer, but not with the sort of enthusiasm I had expected." Sherlock looked down at his hands, face flaming with almost shame but perhaps just angry at the unfamiliar frustrations of the rules applied to him.

Lestrade let his shoulders sag. "Please tell me you did not propose all this to her... like that?"

"I never do it right. If I lie, things work and it all goes smashing. But when I actually care and tell the whole truth... people slap me and there is crying and leaving. Did you know Molly's father was in the Navy? His long career was certainly reflected in her vocabulary. I should have lied and by the time she figured it out, it would have been too late. She saw the love bites too...I told her parts of this plan, there was less slapping but a very long and loud amount of yapping... I am a monster was the main point of it... and here we are. Every plan, gone to hell?"

Lestrade laughed at him. "That is what you have been depressed about? The fate of the baby?"

Sherlock looked offended. "Young Watson is quite exceptional, I assure you."

Lestrade grinned. "You see but you don't observe. I have no kids. The wife and I tried. No luck. We have been approved for adoption for years. I wanted kids. She held out for an infant. Didn't matter to me... but her determination. It was an ugly side in my book. Not about love and it was our first breaking point. We get out of this mess. If Mycroft won't keep her. I will adopt her. You marry me and boom, you become her legal guardian. As our kind host says... easy-peasy."

"You're serious. You would do all of that? Marry me?"

"If John does not come around and Mycroft won't. Yeah. Why not. Look, sunshine, in case you missed it. I agreed to go off to shitstorm Arabia for you. If we happen to live,and our Game we started ...goes sixes and sevens...Be a bit nice to know I might have something to come home to? "

Sherlock blinked twice and with a single deep nod he answered, "I accept."

Greg grinned stupidly. "Just like that?"

Sherlock's face softened. "In case you have never noticed, we may only be the back up plan. But we do work, surprisingly easily. It is no trick and it is not a terrible plan. At least I won't cheat on you or be angry when you work late... unless of course you won't let me be there with you. We should announce it. "

"Bit early there. He just kissed you? That looked like progress to me... though it also meant you already are cheating on me. That is the basic definition of cheating, in fact."

"Then he ran off to dinner, drank too much, pretended to fall asleep and got up at the Arse end of Dawn to avoid it. It does not count " Sherlock replied.

"Did you kiss him? Take him unawares?"

"We are not repressed Victorian widows. He kissed me but he was just trying it on. Doesn't mean anything to him or he would have fought for it... or at least tried to reason you into a coma. Follow my lead. We will announce it for maximum return of jealousy when the time is right. But my real answer is still yes."

Greg grinned. "Yes Sergeant Donovan, wanted to invite you to my engagement do... print the bastards up as 'Detective Inspector Gustafson Lestrade and Freak wish to announce their intended nuptials and request the honour of your presence at the crime scene!' That would get her going?"

"Regardless of how this goes... that is now on my bucket list!" Sherlock stood and stepped up to Greg. "Did you brush your teeth?"

Greg's eyebrows furrowed. "Not yet."

"Fuck it." Sherlock pulled him forward and kissed him far more enthusiastically than he had seen him kiss John the night before. When he pulled away, he said somewhat breathlessly. "New codicil to our demon pact. And, I have had the urge to do that since you decided to not be dead on me yesterday. Soooo... shall we wander down stairs to see if my sister decided to poison the coffee this morning?"

" Not sure. Death has lost a bit of its charm... just now. I am affianced, it seems. Have to think of more than myself now, don't I?"

  
"But time will not permit: all is uneven, And every thing is left at six and seven. From Richard the Second. " Sherlock quoted.

 


	30. Chapter 30

John was actually in the kitchen laughing and making manly grunting noises with Colonel Moran. Well not actual noises but that was effectively what Sherlock and Greg heard as the two of them loudly debated the merits of a Tomahawk vs a Storm Shadow as if they were discussing the footie.

"They both come out of the sky and kill people. This is like discussing the the fashion choices of suicide bombers," Sherlock said rather than good morning as he winced and settled into a kitchen chair by the fire.

John gave him a dark look and Greg felt his hackles rise. He understood in a way. Put any two cops in a room and they inevitably talk shop. "Thought you had Freddie Nightingale duties to attend to?" Greg asked as he helped himself to coffee, added sugar and brought one to Sherlock.

John smirked and watched Greg attending to Sherlock. His face registered a cool but proprietary interest. "Things work so much better when all my patents are on time and I have no charting to mess with. There is a full clinic down at the VOTD and two medics and two corpsman to keep an eye on things. What have you two been doing all morning?" John threw back.

There were snickers from Moran and Jim.

"VO...are you....Oh, military lingo. How exciting. Everything must be called letters. Going a little ARAB on us, aye Tommy? Secret squirrels just love lingo! " Sherlock said hatefully.

John crossed his arms and legs and leaned back on the counter. "Well, you are in a delightful mood as always. Pain pills wear off, did they?"

"Oh yes, Doctor. Want to... check my stitches again? " Sherlock said in a breathless falsetto.

John said nothing but his face went brilliant and his cheek bulged as his jaw clamped.

Jim looked at Eurus, "Oh, darling. We are soooo inviting your family for Christmas. This is brilliant. I feel almost cozy. Do you feel cozy?"

Lestrade looked at John. "Knock it off you two."

"Discipline is the key, Greg. Once you let the wee lads form a habit of bickering... it just never ends." Jim chimed in helpfully.

Sherlock looked up at Greg. "Daddy's right. We are being naughty. Besides, ermmm... honey? We have happy news to share. Do you want to tell them?"

Greg cast his eyes sideways at the awful pet name. "You sure? Up to you..."

Sherlock took his hand and smiled. "Greg and I are engaged. To be married. So that should answer all questions as to our morning's occupation."

Lestrade watched John's face as everyone else gasp and offered congratulations. John looked a bit sick to his stomach then set his mug on the counter. "Hey Seb, you promised to show me that Siyavash...Iranian didn't you say?"

"Yeah. We ought to get on over there too. The lads love to practice on pretty days like this. Gets a bit loud when they all get at it. Oh, and I am dying to show off my newest baby. Jimmy got me a Wimmersperg Spz for my birthday. Been waiting for something special to light it up. No fun when you are around people who cannot appreciate it."

John looked actually impressed. Addressing Sherlock, he stated "Hey, you get around to the 7p's on Iraq, count me in. I will be at the range." John stepped through the door as he put on his jacket, "How did he track one down? Which one?"

"The l. Lange Bauart, could not believe my eyes. I have only seen drawings...

The men moved beyond earshot and John never actually acknowledged the news.

"Sebbie loves to share his toys. He is giving, like that. Watson, seems a bit less like the sharing type," Jim said pleasantly as he sipped his coffee and smiled. "Darling, why don't you give Greg a tour of our little paradise. I will stay here and Sherlock and I can have a lovely chat. Catch up... you know. You get so bored when I go on about the good old days."

Eurus grinned. "Only if you promise to be good. He is not up for any rough housing."

"Yes, Mummy. Take a shawl. Tá sé fuar inniu."

"Tú imní iomarca mo pheata." She replied.

Greg searched Sherlock's face, to be sure he agreed. "It is fine. I would go too if I were up for it."

Greg smiled at Eurus a bit and tried to hide his slightly obvious nervousness. "Care for a stroll, m'lady? "

Eurus plucked a thick Afghan from the hook and skipped out the door in excitement.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~  
7 p's= Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents a Piss Poor Performance

Secret squirrels are army slang for MI6

Tommy is after the Tommy Adkins given as an example name when filling out registration for the British army.

ARAB  
Arrogant Regular Army Bastard

 

  
It is cold today. = **Tá sé fuar inniu.**

You worry too much my pet = **tú imní iomarca mo pheata.**

 


	31. Chapter 31

They made it to the beach and the wind was brisk and sweet. Eurus twirled and danced, a child of Joy and light. Greg strolled behind her and grinned. She was like a child and he wondered at how this could contain someone as evil as her reported deeds. He was not concerned, he noticed the two men who kept watch in the distance. He hated to admit it, but he liked Eurus.

They came to the sand and she kicked her shoes off and played in the surf. Screaming in delight as the water lapped at her toes.

Greg flopped down in the sand and watched her. On occasion the wind brought the sound of gunfire. He traced his fingers in the sand and wondered if Mycroft might be thinking of him.

Bright rose coloured Queens Scallops littered the beach here where no beachcombers rose early to steal them away as fast as they washed up. Greg picked up a few of them.

They were symbolic of the peregrino for those who walked the Camino in Spain. He collected a few of them and tucked them in his pocket. He would give them to Sherlock and John. One for Rosie. He would put two of them on a string. He would give one to Mycroft when he saw him next. It was a silly thing, but he wanted to carry some sort of faith in happy endings with him and he figured St. James was as good as any. He was about to go on a journey into the unknown and he was the patron saint of pilgrims.

Eurus tired of the water and came to sit next to him. She spoke after a while. "This is my favourite place in the world. The first time he brought me here, I had not been outside for over twenty years. It felt so big. The wind made me feel like I would fall into the sky and never be able to get back down. I had forgotten wind. I thought I was the wind. I was frightened. He is patient with me. He likes that I am clever. Nobody else ever did. He was not afraid of me."

"What do you suppose Mycroft will have to say about your escape?" Lestrade asked smiling with mirth.

"Mycroft's biggest flaw is that he has never allowed himself to make mistakes. He expects perfection from himself. Every time he takes an errant step, he over corrects, which leads to another error. He has put himself in a state of denial to the point that his own austerity has become a self indulgence. He is a flawed man, but he plays the odds with such skill that he always expects to win every battle.

"He wins a war and laments the loss of a skirmish. He is terrified that if he is not perfect that he is of no value. Much like Sherlock and his puzzles. Someday, when your charade with Sherlock comes to an end, you will remember what I have just told you and use that understanding to give him a home. He is a warship with no harbour and you are deep calm water.

"Your wife did not cheat on you because you were unworthy, or not enough. The flaw in your marriage was the fact that she was a tiny rowboat and her anchor could not reach the bottom. You will steady a great man, but those of shallow draft will always float away from you.

Greg thought for a moment. "Are you doing that thing? Trying to get in my head?"

She grinned. "Yes. But for once I am using my powers for good."

He shrugged. "Why? What would make you be nice to me? I will be calling you Mummy next and have no idea what happened."

"Because, you are kind and dear to Sherlock. But, you love Mycroft. I have never actually met anyone who did before. Not unless they were obligated to care. If he forgives himself, he can forgive me. But, he must find that path or the past will destroy him.

"I don't understand...I don't think I am clever enough to see what you mean is all..."

"I have a secret. I have told them. They will not listen. I did not put Victor in the well. I burnt the house, but I was five. Victor was bigger than me. He saw something. There was a man who was bad. You are a policeman. Do I need to go on?"

"Oh God. He hurt you?" Lestrade's heart was racing.

"See. You are quite clever. More clever than the rest."

"You were afraid. He threatened you...they always do.  Do you know what happened to him?" Greg asked, furious and calm. "I will see him brought to justice. Between Sherlock and I, we will find a way..."

"In my husband's closet. There are two pairs of shoes. They are my justice. He can never hurt me again. All my life, Jamie was the only one who believed in me. And now you too."

"Why don't you tell them now?"

She stood and extended her hand to Greg. "Because Mycroft will need a safe harbour before he can see the storm. It will damage him and I do not want to scuttle that mighty ship, my dear Detective Inspector. There, now you are no longer afraid of me. We can go back now. The boys have had playtime long enough. They will get into my sewing and spill the sugar if we leave them unsupervised too long. "

Greg laughed, realising she really was not as crazy as she sounded.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock and Jim were in a fit of hysterics when Greg and Eurus arrived back from the beach. Greg took off his borrowed coat and stood for a moment in amazement.

"You two have bonded, I see. Bit terrified here. What is so funny?" He finally asked.

"I asked Jim to be best man at my wedding....Can you imagine Mycroft's face?"

Lestrade had just let that sink in when Moran and five others strolled into the kitchen and he affirmed to Jim that these were his lads for the sandbox.

"Well, down to business then. Where is Watson? Thought he was with you?"

"Chapel, I think, boss. Getting right with 'is last end grace," Moran volunteered.

"Greg? Do you mind?" Sherlock asked as if tired by his bout of silliness.

He strolled up the hill. The chapel naught more than a defiant little stone shed five pews deep and an alter. The view of the close islands and in the far offing the mainland of Cork was beyond beautiful. Greg paused and took in the greens and greys and shimmering blues before ducking into the tiny chapel.

John was in the second to front pew, bent as if napping more than appearing at prayer. Greg did not disturb his communion and simply sat behind him and waited.

Without moving, John asked, "Why are you going along for this ride? You do realise that this has next to no chance of success and you are going to be a bull in a China shop with people shooting at us?"

"When you put it that way..." Greg said in a teasing tone. "Look, I may not know a sheik from a camel, but where would I be without those two wankers? Going on ten years now and I may get cranky about the crap they shovel my way sometimes, but, at the heart of it all, if it was me with my Arse in a crack, I know they would be there... hell they have been. Woulda lost my job if the head wanker had not intervened.

"But, I never have to ask. You ever notice that? You have something go tits up, Anthea is there with a fix. You think he does it to control. I don't think so. He is lousy at saying what he means. But, in his way, he tries. This time his Arse is the one in trouble. Who else? If not me, who else? Sherlock and he hiss like two cats fighting over a catnip mouse, but at the same time, so do you and Sherlock. Hatred  is not what I see between the two of you."

John sits up and half-turns in the pew to face him. He fists his hands on the cap rail and gives Greg a disarming smile whilst propping his head on his hands. "Why are you going to marry Sherlock?"

Greg takes a deep breath to answer. But the words stick. "There are reasons, John. I don't think it is the time to get into them. But they are valid and true. Why did you kiss him?"

John's eyes dropped and he very softly said, "So I would know. What I missed. By being an idiot. Won't happen again. Not going to apologise for it either. But just so you know, give me a reason... any reason at all... I would steal him from you and ..." John sucked air hard through his nose and looked up blinking, "not care if I went to the devil for it. Because it is not fair. You could have either one. And You got...mine."

"John....look...I need to..."

"No. Don't. Because I get it. I do. I got exactly what I deserved. And he got a better man than I will ever be. I am not a good man. Never was. So don't trust me ... not about him at least...and if we do get home someday. It is war, my friend."

Lestrade felt both pity and challenged and his mind could not decide which card to play, so he stayed silent.

"Just a little hint. If by some bloody intervention of God and the devils own we do pull off a miracle and get back home... I see an apocalyptic cat fight taking place and you, my friend, are going to be the mouse." John added with a knowing smirk.

"Maybe people should say what they mean and not pretend to be noble when they are just hiding from their courage."

John's brows went up, wrinkling his forehead and widening his eyes with amused shock. "Did you just call me a coward?"

"You're the one I caught kissing my boyfriend and didn't have the bottle to talk to him about it after. Call it whatever you like. But, I am actually here to tell you they are planning our exotic tour of the holy lands and if you want to get a good camel, you better get in the queue."

The kitchen was buzzing with maps and chatter when they got back. "We are going to mess with the lads, tonight, kitchen is off limits for cooking today. Watson, you have more experience with the language than I? Do you know any Kurdish?"

"Bit of Sorani, but I don't read it at all..."

"Okay, basics here, we know Iran would be the best place to go in, but the visa requirements will never let us, so we have to go in by way of southern Iraq. Baghdad airport is too hot right now for eight limeys to show up unnoticed. Syria has just shut down all travel... embassies closed... yada yada... so our only possible escape if we do get them out is to trek it south west into Saudi or up the tigress to Turkey... neither option is good. We rescue them and are trapped ...

Eurus stated calmly, "You must go to Damascus..."

"Sweet lady, there is no hope in Damascus. None." Moran said kindly.

"No, if that is where she says to go... You need to look, because she is most often right ...." Jim said.

Sherlock asked softly, "Tell them what you see. Explain. "

"Look at the terrain. The men who have my brother are city dwellers. They have lost their old ways. They will follow you in the cities from one to the next. Go west... to the old people. Let them guide you."

"Sister, the Bedouin are gone now. They have been settled. They are notoriously clannish and they hate the British... it was a good idea, but your data is a few years out of date."

"I would wager you, brother mine, but you wager your life and I will not play those odds." She stood and without another word, she left the room.

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

"We are going about this all wrong. What about Tikrit? Camp Speicher? It is forty miles north of our target. They even had a Pizza Hut." John threw in to the discussion.

One of the five "sand babies" as Colonel Moran labeled them for their extensive service in earlier years, chimed in. "I don't know. The septic tanks handed it back to the Iraqis when Captain Unicorns pulled out. ISIS went in soon after and massacred the lot of them. Poor bastards. Took over the former US command. Bombed the two runways then went after those who fled as ISIS approached. They caught up to some of them on the road to Baghdad.

"They were unarmed cadets. Sent home in mufti. Walking home to Baghdad when they were tricked. Told they had buses to transport them and they massacred them. Shot, beheaded, hell strangled some. All while they cheered and celebrated their blood sports. They murdered Like 1500 of them. I was spooking at the time. Before I lost me leg and got invalided. They posted videos of it. Bodies floating down the Tigress. It was nasty. Nobody seemed very bothered out in the wide world at the time. Blip on the news. Toilet wars in the States got more buzz."

"Shit... Had no idea. What's the status now?" John asked.

"Supposedly Iraqi Army has control again... but who knows. Hell Christmas of 2015, they caught two of the murdering shitbags in Finland. They were up there as asylum refugees. Twin psychopaths, kill a few hundred unarmed cadets and post videos, proud of themselves... tell a little sob story and boom, open arms, have a nice Lihapiirakka"

John looked disgusted. "I want to help those in need too. But this, come one, come all kumbaya crap... not the way to do it."

Jim agreed, "If I wanted to be rich as Georgie Soros in about a week, I could take the money IS forces are paying to smuggle their invading forces all over the planet. Not their families mind you. No. They are left to find their own way. But the single men of fighting age...well, even I have limits to my crazy. Who knew. I do not deal in human trafficking. Never have. Ask Sherlock? How many child rings did I put you on in your Magic Mystery Tour?"

Sherlock smiled and answered, "Fourteen in Eight different countries, all of which I subsequently discovered were not your operations, though you were obviously aware of your associates side jobs."

"Yes. And I am in your debt for taking the fall to 'out' them. I prefer to stay in the realm of assumed dead, but rumoured to be some sort of romantic vampiric immortal. Always keep them guessing. You know how I love fairytales." Jim said casually. "I do hope your beloveds will keep my little legends safe?"

Greg piped in, "I will swear in court you are a walking corpse and sucked blood from my own neck if you want. "

Everyone laughed when John added, "Jesus... TMI Greg. Giving me a Henman!"

"Back to our problems at hand?" Sherlock redirected. " We have the resources. If the landing strip is viable, we can still use it as our drop point. My controller has packets and will arrange our covers..."

"Hold on bucko... Liz Smallwood thinks you are dead. I left a tiny bit of a mess in the Garden of Gethsemane. " Jim mentioned.

Greg agreed. "He made a boom-boom while you were all distracted with wounded. Closed space. The concussion has no out. It is probably mince meat and char in there. We have not checked in, so they will assume."

Sherlock looked to Jim to confirm Greg's assertions.

Jim shrugged sheepishly and shuffled his foot as if admitting he ate all the holiday sweets. "I did have a lot of time on my hands, waiting for the Borscht breath boys... and you know how I love fireworks. Also, my wife is only safe if she is assumed dead. "

"For the best, no doubt there," Sherlock affirmed

"We did release the other prisoners on the beach... with some of the Docs. I mean not all of them were in on the psychological mental torture. You saw what they had done to your John, in a matter of days. You were coming to break him out anyway. Gave me a huge surprise there. I couldn't let that slide. I have a little issue with my temper when people hurt my own. " Jim said, his head bobbing with relived anger.

John added, "Sherlock... all I have to say on it is I hope they like the dark. We were lab rats for how to break prisoners. They were using her methods. Just talking. Getting inside their minds. I know there was no physical pain, but it was horrendous. If Mycroft is behind it... I am going to kill him myself. After I rescue him from the Daesh."

  
"I also got four shiny helicopters out of it. If I had not killed them... they would have been wanting those back. Got a buyer for the Chinook already. Profitable day. " Jim said.

Sherlock took a deep breath as if to speak, held it, groaned an, "Ohhhhhhh..." and disappeared into his mind palace.

"And there he goes... " John sighed and shook his head.

"It will be a long time before they sort out what happened at Sherrinford. Government helicopter shot down. Then the whole place goes silent. They will need Sherlock Holmes to ... oh... wait... he is dead again." Jim continued for his audience.

"Is anyone else starving? They are having Steak pies or grilled Salmon in the mess today. Smelled really good. That alright?"

"Yes. I could eat. Give everyone some time to think."

Everyone began bundling in their outerwear except for Sherlock.

"What about him?" Moran pointed, confused.

John and Greg laughed.

"Off with the fairies, that one. Won't even notice we are gone. We can bring him a take away. Big double order of the Salmon."

Greg shook his head, "He hates Salmon!"

John grinned mischievously, "Yeah. I know."

Greg rolled his eyes, "You know that war thing we talked about in the chapel? That is not how you win, mate. Hope you are a lot better at the real kind, or god help us all."

 

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~  
As always... Real events seep into my stories to add depth to various characters and their motives.

https://yle.fi/uutiset/osasto/news/finnish_court_tries_iraqi_twins_on_mass-murder_charges/9349721

Septic tanks is Cockney rhyming slang for Damned Yanks... and yes... septics is rather fitting at times ...lol. I am a septic too before you get offended.

I imagine you guessed who Captain Unicorns is... his non-military experience and his concern about global warming rather than a worldwide crisis of chaos... well it was a nice idea, but come on. War releases more bad carbon emissions than all the civilian saving the planet efforts can ever catch up to. Love him or hate him, he was still mad as Minerva.

Henman-- "unexpected semi" or mild erection. derived from Tim Henman's mediocre skills somehow allowing him to reach the semi-finals of tournaments, albeit unexpectedly.

Garden of Gethsemane-- place where Jesus prayed and his disciples slept the night before his crucifixion; i.e. the site recorded as where the agony in the garden took place.

  
I am sorry to have slowed down a bit.. migraine. But I did want to take a second to say that your comments are my favourite thing of the whole day and the more I get the more ambitious I am to write faster. It is crazy what one comment can make you feel. I adore you all.

 


	34. Chapter 34

The village of the damned (VOTD) mess was a jovial affair. The food was of superior quality and prepared with a low salt healthy plan in mind. It was served cafeteria style on unadorned square plastic trays.

The proportions were meant for active soldiers and therefore heavy on protein and complex carbs. There was no sugar for tea and no fizzy drinks allowed. The few sweet offerings were fruit based and very light and refreshing. John approved at once and enjoyed every bite. Lestrade craved a danish and a builder's.

The men were delighted to share their meal with what they considered their commanding officer. Jim seemed content amongst them and it was obvious he spent many evenings in their company.

The new people were being sorted and though they were all settling in, there was a divide. Everyone on Saint James island had a job. These former prisoners and mental ward patients were not part of the place yet and many were almost shell shocked at freedom. Eurus would have her work cut out for her if she intended to make fully functional human beings out of them. Others were getting on perfectly well.

One of these came up to the main table and just stood there, head down, twisting his fingers. Eurus smiled and asked, "What is it, Daniel?"

"I speak a bit. Standard Arabic, Kurdish, Pashto, I read a bit too. Was in the service long time ago. I know I am too old, but I could help?"

A moment of debate was all it took to welcome him onto the team. He was also noted for setting things on fire so his services might even come in handy.

Jim seemed to hear something otherworldly before the pudding was served and excused himself without explanation before disappearing.

There were war stories and laughter. They returned to the main house to find Sherlock and Jim speaking on separate phones and yet still carrying on a clipped conversation of arm waving and pointing with each other.

A computer monitor played and Lestrade took only a second to be mesmerised by the figures on the screen. Searching each face for one.

Sherlock said with frustration, "Yes of course he is not going to tell you? We will meet you in Cardiff and as far as they are concerned we all died at Sherrinford. It is the only explanation for all of the events. They were lured by a legitimate need but fed a farce. There is no power plant in Samarra The other three are true, but this one was a lie. " He listened carefully then continued, "Well that is delightfully useless then isn't it. We have our own ride in, thanks. They can coordinate with us after rescue. If the president can do it so can we. Just tell the Americans not to shoot at us. The race is on."

Jim had a much less trying conversation going, his was more boastful and cheery. "Well, it is a very long way and I do have another offer. They are highly sought after and I have to have guarantees. After all, if I get caught, because they shot at me on the way in... that could make explaining very.... no. I do not get my hands dirty... negotiable if you can get me refuelled in....Mersin? Okay how about Adana? Got to top off to make the skip to Aldor. Bain of Helicopters, they get thirsty so fast when loaded down."

"Do you want My Brother to die? Because that is what you do if that is the goal. I don't know which one of them. See if you missed a boyfriend or ... Yes, I trust Anthea but she has a mole ...."

"Look... I do not care why they want In or why your boys want out. Not my business. Maybe Muhammad...May God honor him and grant him peace...spoke to them in a dream. I don't care. They are willing to pay me. I sneak them in... we trade credentials and boom... you have the ..."

Lestrade looked at Daniel, "Can you understand that? Can you tell me what they are saying?"

Daniel bent towards the screen and frowned. "They say these men are condemned as war criminals. They have not Recognised the authority of Allah and they are boasting that they willingly confessed to I don't understand the words... oh... they have been sent by ... something provenance ..sort of ...to face the chosen people for their reign of terror... it just goes on and on like that... they get incredibly repetitive... it is their way... quoting the Quran to cite the crimes... against them. If the light of god were in them then they would not have come...they came with greed and to stop the beautiful justice of sharia and another quote... this may go on for hours you know... bit windbag that lot."

Lestrade watched each face as the camera gave close ups. Mycroft came into view. He was almost unrecognisable. His eyes seemed distant and uncompromising, though he wept silently, his posture and stoic bearing singled him out. His head was shaved and his face was not. His arms were tied at the elbows and he knelt as they all did. Listening to the eternal rhetoric. Greg sucked in his breath and held it as the camera moved on down the line.

Daniel spoke softly. "You may not wish to see the rest. There will be a beheading. It is not a pleasant thing to see."

"I am a cop. I have seen some very bad things."

They waited, then one man was kicked forward. He fell into the gravel and could not protect his face. But he was calm. Too calm. He did exactly as they told him and simply waited for them to talk some more and then his head was bent forward and it began."

"He is drugged. It makes them more cooperative," Daniel explained.

"Oh god... it is just a knife. They are not even doing it... oh my god..." Lestrade seemed to be the only one in the room who was shocked by the brutal reality of this ritual. The camera pulled back and Greg could see Mycroft, the barely restrained anger. He was pale and obviously wanted to vomit. He was rapidly blinking away tears, But held his continence with as much dignity as the situation allowed. All Greg could think of was,' thank god it was not him'. He had all the pity in the world for whoever the poor bastard was, but he could feel nothing but relief that it had not been Mycroft.

Sherlock was finally off the phone and came around behind Greg.

"How are we ever going to find him, Sherlock? It is like he is on another planet. I had no idea.... they are in the middle of no place. He is in pain. I can tell." Greg poured out, his breathing going rough.

"Oh I should think finding him will be rather easy now. My clever brother just sent me the coordinates. His exact location. "

"What? How?"

"You did not think he was actually in tears did you? Mycroft does not cry. And when he does, it is ugly blubbering crying. Lots of snot involved. He faked tears so they would not shoot him. Here... lets rewind... ignore the gorier bits... watch his eyes. GPS coordinates. Took me watching it four times to realise his code... but if you look it up... "Sherlock went to a map and pointed. " He is right here and our friend Jim just sold a Helicopter full of weapons to a guy... right here. We will have to do some skipping about to coordinate fuelling ... but... we are on our way."

Greg spent the rest of the evening making tiny knots in a fine braided leather cord. Using the hole drilled by the starfish that had killed the scallops and a needle to push the cord tightly through so each hung flat to the chest, he worked on his gifts.

He picked the two that matched the closest and kept them. He gave Jim and Eurus paler matching shells and because it pleased her so, Jim put his on as well. John smiled and put his on without comment and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat his aside. Later, when he thought nobody was looking he quickly put it on and tucked it under his shirt. Daniel nodded and thanked him. Moran took six and agreed to pass them to the lads.

They made an early night of it. There were bug out bags already at the ready and John was the only one who fussed with his. His was larger as he would carry a med pack as well. It hooked to the outside of the molle strapping and he also pulled out items he said he would not need to make more room for vacuumed sealed and compressed bandages. It was a huge pack for the smallest man in the room.

Lestrade tied another shell on his own, to distinguish it from the other plain dun coloured rucksacks lined up on the dining room table made of logs.

The three of them went to their room and in silence readied for bed, showers and last minute thoughts. The lights were switched off and Greg took his place in the middle. John on his right, turned to face the wall and a small watercraft of some sort crept by, lights blazing in the distance.

Sherlock flopped around, unable to get comfortable. Finally he snuggled up to Greg and seemed to relax. Greg was drifting off just as John spoke.

  
"I do not want you two to take this wrong, but I beg you both not to go. Sherlock you are not well. Greg, this is so far outside of your understanding. Please. I will do everything in my power to bring him back, but you are going to ... be more hindrance than help."

"He is my brother, John."

"I am aware. You will not be able to keep up. You can barely come up the stairs on your own. You are fighting an infection. I know you never give a damned about what I say, but I would do anything to talk you out of this madness. Ask anything. Just ask. I would do it... please don't go."

Sherlock was quite for a long time, as if considering. At last he said, "I'm sorry. John."

There was a deep sigh, "I suggest you text Irene, then. Because you probably won't make it back. I doubt she will pop up to save you. But, never know about her. "

Just at that moment, a woman's sigh sounded in the dark.

John sat up and glared at the phone. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

In the wee hours of the morning, they all assembled once again in the kitchen. Moran, the five "sand babies" and Daniel the firebug had already taken off and headed north in the Chinook. Sherlock, Jim, John, Lestrade and a pilot headed Southeast to Cardiff in the shiny blue Blackhawk that was Moriarty's pride and joy.

Lestrade spent the ride enjoying the view like a tourist, snapping pics on his phone and peaking into the back gardens of the private Islanders. He knew fear would soon be his companion, but for now he was carefree and excited. His first real tour of Europe was to be had in a private helicopter and he was going to enjoy it.

It took just under two hours to arrive and there was a Jaguar waiting on the Tarmac. A petite blond woman of a certain age stepped out of the car and stood waiting beside it. They each got out of the helicopter, John and Greg assisting Sherlock, and the engine was cut with a singing sound as the blades slowed. Everyone instinctively ducked slightly and held their soft billed caps to their heads.

They headed towards her car and giving Jim a scrutinised glance she shook her head and turned and headed toward a nearby hanger. They followed her, but turning on his psycho grin, Jim skipped ahead and began annoying her for the shear joy of her disapproval.

John glanced up at Sherlock as if to say this could not end well, but there was mirth dancing in their eyes. Out of the wind, Lady Smallwood laid out several sets of papers.

"Each of you have passports for the U.K., Spain, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Jordan. I tried to leave you room for each contingency. You will also note there are valid diplomatic credentials there. I don't know if they will do you a lick of good or not. But at least if the Iraqi government gets ahold of you, I have some small hope of getting you back out. Sherlock, please note the location of our embassies. Each of you have a variety of small currencies, though use it sparingly because there is not enough there to grease many wheels if you are frivolous.

"If you can make it to an embassy with as many of Mycroft and his entourage as survive, that will be for the best. There are also credentials for the mercenaries you have chosen to accompany you. Doctor, you have a Doctors without Boarders pass as well. It is all worthless if you fall to these people detaining Mycroft, obviously.

"I have made the Americans aware of the nature of this operation but you are private citizens unless you are successful. They are there to save their own, not hold your hands. They have also conveyed a message that is effectively "Stay the hell out of their way.

"I do not approve of this plan but I also know my asset and he has pulled off greater lost causes. So, Sherlock, and the rest of you, I wish you God's speed."

"Have you any word on The Priest?" Sherlock asked.

At this she frowned. "He is outside my purview and his archbishop is livid. If he went to Damascus, he will have been waylaid somewhere on the way. There is no way for him to have gotten that far. Knowing him he is in some refugee camp, rendering aid."

John pipped in, "Yeah, these people don't play nice with other religions. All the might of Rome has no sway in this arena. Best assume humanitarian aid from that end is at full blockade. For the best, too. Whoever in Mycroft's company that is Identified as catholic will be treated even worse than the others. Tell them to stand down if you want my advise."

Sherlock frowned but added, "Yes, probably for the best."

"Mr. Moriarty, it was my understanding that you were not accompanying them in country. I prepared nothing for you."

"That is fine, Liz. I changed my mind. But, I just pop in for the drop and grab my cargo and dash back out. They tell me one of them is a Prince and he is in a bit of a spot over some unbecoming rumours. Not sure what he did, but his family is dropping a bomb to get him to Canada... unfortunate phrase choice I suppose... considering his reputation. But they agreed to my price on the rest of it too, which made me a bit more willing to provide a personal escort. I only agreed to the human cargo for this single reason. "

"Oh, we know who he is and we will be in contact. You cooperate and--"

  
"You shut me down before the good guys pull their crackers and... tsk tsk... Christmas is cancelled. I will dick him around as long as possible. Fueling troubles, mechanical delays... but, he is not important enough for you to mess up this operation. I may offer them one of my bungalows for safety until things are all calm again. But, don't you dare put the whole circus in danger over one clown...mmmm? You feel me?" Jim had gone from easy going joker to a black eyed monster with something more than madness swimming in his eyes in a split second.

Lestrade had been lulled into forgetting who this man really was and though Lady Smallwood met his eyes with defiance, when she spoke again, her teeth were gritted so tightly that her words buzzed, "Do not trifle with me, James. Do. Not."

"Oh Liz. My dear. Let bygones be bygones. You cannot win them all..."

John spoke up," Excuse me, same side here? Remember? Mycroft's head? Keeping it attached to his poncy suit-hanger and not adorning the mantle at Baker Street? Can we get on with that for the moment?"

Sherlock turned toward John and grumbled, "Colourful picture. Thanks so much for that!"

John shrugged and justified, "I know you. Where else would you put it? They are drifting. Need to focus the team is all."

"Bit of a dick, when you are cross, you know?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Bad influences," John said seriously, but with sarcastic humour in his eyes.

The pilot entered and advised, "Juiced up, sir. And Big Ben rings in twenty."

Lady Smallwood rolled her eyes. " Well, that is my cue. I cannot be compromised with knowledge of your cargo. You need better code words. So bloody obvious. I wish you all success. Contact me when M is safe."

Without a backwards glance, she left the building and rolling headlights said she was gone. Five minutes later a Lear took off from the other side of the airport and one third of the British Government had her nose pointed back to London.

The Chinook landed and was refuelled and they did a four hour hop into a tiny, seemingly abandoned flat spot in France with a Quonset hut that seemed held together with layers of paint.

Sure enough, two men arrived within minutes with a fuel lorry and baskets filled with simple bread, cheeses and fruit as well as a rather crisp local wine and the two birds were off again.

They flew over endless mountains and Lestrade lost track of where they might be. When they circled and landed again he asked, "Where are we now?"

Jim smiled and told him, "Croatia. Just outside of Zagreb. The tourists have only recently begun to take notice. It is a lovely city. Colourful. They have a museum here, called 'The museum of broken relationships' and the whole thing is dedicated to lost love and regrets. A whole museum. It is so popular they are opening one in Hollywood. "

"Any chance of a loo? I am busting. The wine." Lestrade asked, rather than take the bait.

Jim grinned at him. "We will. Do take advantage of the facility. I can assure you, we have this last stop... then after that, we will be in the land of nope."

"What's that mean? "

"We are crossing into the other world, dear man. Ever heard of a squat toilet? You are in for a treat. Disgusting. Just wait." Jim snickered.

They had more than an hour as the helicopters went through system checks and were fuelled. This trip was a long string of secret hops and Greg was amazed at the coordination it must take to have had this work like clockwork in a matter of hours. He would never be that clever, but he took some satisfaction in the fact that everyone of these men, so much smarter than he was, even John was actually brilliant, still valued him. He had no idea why, but he accepted it and it made him a little proud.

Another meal was delivered and off they went, to beautiful Ivaylovgrad, Bulgaria where they stopped and descended into a what may or may not have been any hillside with a dilapidated and long abandoned stone ruin in the world There were no facilities and no snacks appeared. The place was little more than a dirt flat spot on the top of a hill.

What did appear were hard eyed gypsies with dodgy wrecks that belched smoke and hand pumps to pour some liquid that hopefully would keep a helicopter in flight and not hiccuping with rust bits and water clogging the works. It took a long time at this stop and they huddled in the helicopter, because it was too bloody cold to stand outside for more than a fag.

Sherlock was asleep again and Lestrade could tell that was eating at John. He was worried and it showed on his face and was reflected in the way he had been handling Sherlock in the last few hours. Gone was the sarcastic bickering and in it's place was a pleading despair that bloomed into gentle words and absolute focus.

Greg wondered what kind of heart it must take to know that this was the wrong thing to do and yet love so strongly that you followed anyway. How could John stand it? Of course, Greg was in similar circumstances but he was along for the ride because all he wanted was a chance to see Mycroft one last moment. Even if it cost him his life, he wanted to see him. John and Sherlock could have it all, just by admitting they cared. They could have stayed safe, as any sane man would have.

Sherlock wanted to save his brother. But John, John was only here to save Sherlock or die by his side.

Just before they took off, Daniel came up to the helicopter. "Can I ride with you? They don't like me. "

Jim sighed and asked patiently, "Daniel, did you try to set them on fire?"

Daniel looked ashamed and shrugged. "Maybe. Just a little bit."

Jim moved seats and nodded. "Yes. Alright. Climb in."

Greg watched in silent horror as the man, weighed down with something heavy and clanking in every pocket, heaved his bulk into the floor of the helicopter and grinned up at Jim with pure adoration.

 

 

~~~~<<<<~~~~~~

Yes, the museum is a real place.  
https://brokenships.com/visit/museum-details

 


	36. Chapter 36

In Adana, Turkey they were met by four men. Jim spoke with them extensively alone on the Tarmac with only Moran standing off to the side, weapon at the ready but with caution. John watched from the Blackhawk, quietly assembling two rifles and laying one aside whilst keeping the other hidden in his lap. His handgun was also drawn.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked, not completely awake.

"Not sure. I just know trouble when I see it. Jim is going all dark barmy like he was at the pool. Moran is on a hair trigger. I have to make a guess that that is not good." John explained quietly.

Moran casually turned and lit a smoke, surreptitiously making eye contact with John, who raised the barrel of the rifle into the windows and quickly back out of sight. Moran gave the slightest nod and turned his back, seemingly enjoying a cigarette and a brisk breeze whilst watching the lights of the city.

Jim came toward the helicopter finally, agitated and hyper. "My buyer, his bodyguard and two pilots plan to take us to a late dinner."

"Sherlock is too sick ." John said calmly.

Daniel spoke up. "I ain't hungry, boss. I will stay. I don't like turnip juice and kabab meat. I cannot stand the food here. I will keep watch."

John protested, "Ummmm .. no. I am the doctor. I will stay."

"Daniel, you will stay. You were a medic... right? They cannot be offended if you stay with a sick man. And God help them if they try to double cross us with you here. John, I am sorry, but this is a hospitality gesture. It would insult them and the whole deal could fall through. " Jim shook his head and returned to the group of men.

More conversation took place with four men and with some gestures toward the Blackhawk, Jim explained the dilemma. One of the men barged into the passenger space and reached out toward Sherlock, and was instantly restrained with a gun at his neck aimed at an upward angle.

Daniel spoke to the man. The man spoke back. "He just wants to check that he is actually sick. He is not going to hurt him, John."

John was shaking with anger, but backed away and nodded. The man slowly reached forward and felt Sherlock's forehead. He looked at his eyes and pulled up his lids. He said something to Daniel and they spoke back and forth, then he nodded. He turned to Lestrade and John and ordered, "Come. You. No him."

They were taken to a modern restaurant not far from the Helicopters. The buyer was a grandiose man who was proud of his English and seemed set on impressing everyone. He bragged of his deeds in the conflicts and how he would be spoken of with awe in the history of Iraq.

They were served Salgam and Lion's milk. The Salgam was a blood coloured sort of beer made of purple carrots meant to cool the taste of the Raki (Lion's Milk). Raki was a strong anise flavour liquor and tasted of cough syrup.

The Adana Kebab was a long reddish lamb meatloaf on an iron skewer seasoned with peppers and sumac. It was mashed flat, grilled and served on a long flat bread similar to pita. The food was greasy, overly spiced and the only relief was the bizarre Salgam and a sort of onion salad.

It was not the worst food Lestrade had ever eaten but he preferred a London Kabob and real beer. This left him feeling bloated and gave him a roaring case of indigestion. He was tired and wanted to have a kip on this last leg of the journey. The pilots had been at it for almost twenty hours now and he felt for them. The sand babies flanked John who ate quietly but from how often his serviette made the trip from his lap to his lips, he was enjoying the meal even less than Greg.

In the sand babies broken Arabic and the buyers men's broken English, there seemed to be some discussion taking place about football.

It did become clear that the buyer, addressed as Shakir Abu, because his name was a babble lasting about three minutes, intended to travel with them for this final leg into Iraq. His pilots would do the flying in order to navigate through the sky checks in order that they would not be shot out of the sky by any of the factions. It seemed like a good plan to Greg, but he was not in charge of a shitshack of dodgy weapons being delivered to some nefarious rebel force. Hell, Greg had no idea if he was one of the good guys or the bad guys. They would have to wait and see and hope it all went as planned. The bloke, sporting one eyebrow and a heavy black beard, was a bit of a braggart but if he wanted to kill them, he probably would not be feeding them first. Though on reflection, maybe he was planning assassination from god awful purple beer.

Eventually the pleasantries ended and they all boarded their respective birds and once again were underway. Shakir Abu, solicitously brought bottles of Salgam to Sherlock and surprisingly Sherlock sipped them like fine wine and thanked Shakir Abu with a long toast to his health and blessings on his family all in Arabic of some kind. He seemed to take to Sherlock at once and when John insisted on changing his dressings, the man made sympathetic noises and asked how the injuries were received.

"Shir-luk.... is Bedouin name? No?" He asked genuinely puzzled.

Daniel sat with his back to the cockpit and glared up occasionally as he busied himself with a mess of wires in his lap, seeming to be braiding them into a rubberised spider.

Lestrade tilted his head back and pulled his cap over his face and tried not to snore.

The change in the droning rotors woke him with a start. He was bleary eyed, needed the loo and wished with everything he had for a delicious cup of machine tar from a vending at NSY. He missed lousy coffee and crisps for breakfast. They did not tear a hole in his stomach like the food from last night had.

It was the grey hour outside, the sky just pinking up as he looked out and saw desert and palm trees. Beyond were mountains and below were cars and sparse buildings with bits of green lush spots here and there.

He wondered what Mycroft saw as this new day dawned. Knowing they would only be twenty miles from him when they landed gave him real hope that this might not be a lark for nothing after all. He could almost smell the man's cologne.

John moved over to sit beside him. "So... tell me what you know of this area before we go in. Thought I would give you a run down to keep you out of trouble a bit?"

Greg thought for a minute, "Well... I saw that movie. Blackhawk Down."

John turned very pale then very red. "Greg... You do know Mogadishu was in Somalia and that is in Africa... right?"

 

 

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

Boots on the ground never felt so good. Greg was sick to his stomach, his arse was six kinds of numb from the vibrations he had spent the last twenty four hours enduring and thanks to John teaching him his first Arabic word, alhamam, he had been directed to a door that had a squiggly and a universal symbol of a blue man.

What he found therein however left him standing with his mouth hanging open and no clue whatsoever as to what approach he was expected to take.

Daniel came in behind him and kindly explained the workings of such facilities.

"We are not in Kansas any more." Daniel said as he dropped trou and got to business.

  
Greg was horrified, mortified and down right in such need that he bit the bullet and gave it a shot. Things went about as well as could be expected, which was shitty, he missed his target, as had other previous occupants, did the best he could with the hose and swore he was not eating another morsel of food that would need to be passed in such a place.

He emerged feeling as if he needed a shower, and one trouser leg looking like he'd already had one. Jim caught his eye and openly laughed compete with bending and holding his stomach at the state of him. Greg knew he was blushing but went to sit on the helicopter whilst whatever arrangements were being arranged.

John smirked and added behind him, " Welcome to hell. How do you like it so far?"

"Shithole has a whole new meaning. " Lestrade said glumly. " Are they all like that?"

"Oh this one is probably one of the better ones. If you see one with a pile of water bottles in front of it. Hold it. Those are the ones without running water and sometimes they are just some raised bricks with a hole in the centre. You have not lived until you have dysentery and that is your only option. It is even more a treat when you are dealing with thirty sick patients and they are sharing a bucket and a red cup. Bog roll is a luxury. Which is why I pack my own."

"Could have shared that, ya know? Instead of telling me I was going to be a burden, you could have just warned me about that and I would not have been as enthusiastic about adventure travel."

"I am sure Mycroft will appreciate your sacrifice in his memoirs." John said with a giggle. "Oh come on, don't pout. We need to pack our crap out of the cargo and get ready to go see if any bullets want to chase us. Fun hasn't even started yet." John tossed his pack at him and they began emptying the Blackhawk and making a pile sixty yards or so from the helicopter.

Sherlock was feeling better and though he did not help with the packing out, he did sit on his own bag and guard the equipment.

The Chinook, with Abu and his men also prepared to leave. They were all just waiting on their passengers.

Three Humvees pullled up and a bedraggled troop transport. Shakir Abu made introductions and there seemed to be some sort of misunderstanding going on but Moran came over and told them to load out so all the packs were dutifully put into the vehicles and they waited. Shakir Abu and his men got into the Chinook and off it went. Sherlock was busy with a GPS and asking John's opinion as the sand babies gathered round.

Sebastian came toward them and explained he was not leaving Jim with that bunch of arse holes and he and the pilots were heading out. It was a change of plans but all seemed to be going as expected. The Blackhawk began warning up, Jim came over and wished them the best of luck and Lestrade felt a bit sorry at the parting, knowing there was every possibility that he would never see Jim Moriarty again.

Everyone waved.

John was just pulling the Biggest Humvee off the Tarmac when Moran began shooting and Jim came sailing out the side of the Blackhawk. There was more gunfire and one of the pilots fell to the ground shot in the head and the other dove out and behind him a suitcase that was full of money was slung after him by the smiling "prince." The case broke open and the rotors blew the currency, which was mostly money shaped paper all around him as Jim jumped to his feet.

The helicopter prepared to lift off and Jim jumped on the rails kicking his legs and screaming his anger. He got about ten foot high and changed his mind and let go, landing in a deep knee bend like a cat and throwing his fist at the rising helicopter despite the fact the occupants were still shooting at him.

He watched in defeated fury as the helicopter lifted away. Moran was checking the pilot and stood up and looked at John and shook his head. The other pilot was also injured and John turned the Hummer toward them and barely parking it, grabbed his pack and began administering aid and checking to see if he could do anything for the other man.

"No,no. Nonononoooooo!!! They took my helicopter. They killed Harold and took my mother bloody helicopter' Jim lamented watching it get smaller.

Daniel got out of the jeep and stood by Jim. "It's okay boss--"

"Noooo. It is not okay. I like that helicopter. It Is the Bluuuee one. It's the blue one. Don't you see? " he pulled at his hair. "I paid for that one!"

Daniel asked," Hey boss... can I borrow your phone?"

Jim looked at him like he could eat him, then moved his head in his neck cracking habit. "What did you ask me? Who could you possibly have to call... At a TIME LIKE THIS!"

Daniel looked at Jim and shrugged. "My phone. I left it on the chopper maybe. If I could just borrow yours."

With a sigh, Jim reached in his pocket and handed his phone to Daniel.

Greg got out to see if he could help John.

Daniel dialled frantically.

He smiled then began waving his arms at the sky. A strange flump sound broke in the distance and the escaping helicopter listed sideways.

Daniel waved his arms as if conducting a symphony and each time he brought his hand in a direct snap, his gesture was answered with a percussive sound from in the distance. As he conducted a finale, the blue helicopter became a bright yellow fireball and rained down in flaming bits from the sky.

Jim and all of them stood in silence and watched this fiery fall and the column of black smoke that rose in its place.

Very calmly, Jim asked. "Daniel? Did you set my helicopter on fire?"

Daniel smiled shy and pleased. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet. "Maybe. Just a little."


	38. Chapter 38

Lestrade bent and picked up a bit of whirling paper scrap. It was blank on one side and when he flipped it over there was printing. He laughed and showed it to Jim.

"Oh for God's sake. They paid me with American money?"

"Not unless Barack Obama is on the thirty dollar bill?" Greg said and handed it to Jim.

"How did you know? Daniel? How did you know?" Moran asked, waving his hand at the distant smoke. " We were supposed to be on that helicopter! Yeah?" Moran fumed.

"The pilots. Said they needed to take off before... the prince pulled one of his left handed handshakes. Cause it would make their boss look bad. See they always wipe their--"

"I get it. Good work" Jim said cutting him off from further explanation. "I should have shot the lot of them when they showed up with five extra people and offered cash."

"Should have looked at the cash too," Moran added with disgust.

"Not to worry. That was just extra. Main funds already transferred. But that was before I lost my favourite Helo. Knew I should have taken the damned Stolen ones..."

"Well, that may be, but they have not been checked over and we may have gone down before we got here. You can buy another one, Jim. They could have killed us all. Fight another day, yeah?" Sebastian said kindly.

 

John had the surviving pilot standing and he limped toward the back of the Hummer and climbed in.

  
"Only now. I do not have a ride back... or... shit. A passport. It was all in the bloody helicopter " Jim groaned in frustration.

Jim gave a growl and then pulled his shoulders up, tilting his head as if to slosh his brain about. He closed his eyes and blew his breath out and opened them again in a better mood.

John had his ruck back in order and stood, slinging it on his back and addressing those standing around. "I hate to spoil your pity party, but Daniel's smoke signals are going to attract the nosy neighbours and here, they carry missile launchers and and not gooseberry crumbles as welcome gifts. We need to move... and we need to find clothes that help us blend."

At this time they turned and noticed the five men standing at the other Hummer, where Sherlock was passing out some semblance of   
ankaffiyeh. The sand babies were in the middle of darkening their faces and folding the material around their heads.

John chucked as Lestrade said, "What in the hell?"

"Trust Sherlock to always have a disguise planned. " John answered.

They made fast work of wrapping their heads and heading through the small town of Aldour.

The town consisted of mostly mud brick huts and Mosques. Lestrade looked around and could smell coffee somewhere but they pushed on and soon were on the main road to the south. The Tigress river winked at them from time to time in the distance, but was soon only known to be near by the line of vegetation on its banks. The road was dusty, though paved and taking note of the other men, he unzipped a top pocket in his ruck and found sunglasses. He tucked his scarf thing over his face and used the glasses to anchor it in place. John drove with Sherlock in the vehicle behind them and the other two vehicles were driven by the young mercenaries.

John spoke in a loud voice and pointed to a little unremarkable hut. "That is where they found Saddam hiding. One day this will be all built up as a tourist attraction."

Lestrade craned his head to see where John was pointing, but it just looked like a pile of square mud bricks like all the rest to him.

Fifteen minutes later the little convoy left the road and headed into the desert proper. It was rocky and slow moving. People came out of their lonely huts to watch them pass and burka covered women herded their young ones inside.

"Do you know where we are going?" Lestrade asked as a kidney shaking bump made him grab the dash for stability.

"Satellite shows a washout up ahead. We can hide the transport there and do a recon on foot to see what we are facing. Looked like easy pickings... unsecured perimeter... but better safe than sorry. You didn't think we were just going to drive in and knock on the door and ask if they minded handing our friends over did you?"

"No. I suppose not. Didn't really think that far. I was not even sure we'd make it here. Was more like we would just keep going and then we'd heroically be back in London somehow. I really am bollocks at this...". Greg admitted.

John asked in a careful voice. "You ever killed anyone?"

"God no. I AM a copper, we frown on it a little."

"Well, prepare yourself. This is a whole different world . Down here it is you or them."

Greg shook his head at that analogy. "It is like being on the bloody moon... with palm trees."

  
"Yeah? Well trust me, there are no friendly aliens in this movie. Rule of thumb. If it moves, shoot it. If it does not move, use it for cover, and shoot from behind it," John said with a serious tone.

"I thought if it didn't move, you painted it?" Greg asked.

"You are going to die on me, aren't you?"

Greg looked behind him. "I want to ride with Sherlock. Who knew he was the sane one?"

John laughed and said, "You did not ask me to marry you. Ask Daniel... sanity is overrated."

 

  
~~<<<<~~~~~~~~~~<~  
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ad-Dawr  
Just for info purposes, this was the town Saddam Hussein was located in in 2003.


	39. Chapter 39

They found their spot and with some struggles got all the vehicles mostly in the ditch. They discussed John's plan of watching the compound but Sherlock at once poked several holes in the plan.

"No. The compound does not matter. You saw the video. What time of day was it? After their noon prayer they march the prisoners out and kill someone. Out in the desert. They think they are safe. You see? Nobody can find them. They are careful in their videos. Fiddling with their cameras. Every one of them wants to please Allah... they are not paying attention and we can take them by surprise. Steal the prisoners and beat our little feet to the embassy. Simple. "

John shook his head. "This is not a case Sherlock. We cannot go in half cocked. We don't know where they go. We won't know the terrain. We have no idea their numbers. We would have to beat them there and it is two hours off from--"

"And what if it is today? What if it is him? Safe day before yesterday? He is my brother. I am going. You do what you want!"

"Sherlock...I do understand. But you are not listening and--"

" I am going. Now. With or without anyone. I will go--"

"Oh that is just brilliant. Do you see yourself? You are going to hump it ten clicks through a desert? Four stab wounds. Infection settled in two of them. Antibiotics maxed out just to get you here and you still were exhausted just from sitting. Too exhausted to even eat! You have had exactly three grapes and some purple carrot beer and a mousetrap serving of cheese in the last four days, but you are going to singlehandedly trot out there, take on a terror network as one lone bad arse, rescue an unknown number of people, provide medical aid and transport and come back safe and sound. Because you are the Indestructible Sherlock Holmes and to hell with everybody else!" John got louder and angrier as he spoke.

"Nobody likes Mycroft. I am surprised they have not killed him already."

"Good point, still a stupid plan!"

"Yes. Are you coming?" Sherlock asked softly.

John spun in place and shook his head, fighting the urge to cry. He leaned over and steadied himself on the hood of the Humvee, taking several deep breaths. When he stood again there was resolve on his face and a deep humoured sorrow. "Of course I am, you idiot. Of course, I am."

The look between them hung for far too long and whatever passed in their eyes made both of them smile.

At this point Moran weighed in. "You two can commit suicide if you want to, but not me and not my men. John's plan is our only workable option. However... if you two go in, guns blazing... get captured. We actually could go in while you are out there distracting them... and break out from the inside...element of surprise."

Sherlock looked at Moran and then he laughed. "Sebastian, you are a Genius. We do not have to go in guns blazing. We have diplomatic credentials. What do they want more than anything? Always give them what they want."

"What do you mean?"

"They are serial killers. They always want recognition. So we give them the full English... and we recognise them? To heck with walking...Get in, we will meet them. Sebastian, I will baffle them as long as I can, you go with your plan. "

Greg thought for a minute, "I am going with you two. Just so you know."

Sherlock's eyes met his and he nodded without argument.

John shook his head. "No. This could be suicide still. They may shoot us on sight."

"John. Let him. He came all this way. Just, let him."

"Fine. On you then. And you better learn to pronounce that bloody pompous name they have made up. They hate being called Daesh. "

Jim asked, "What is the backup plan? In case this doesn't work?"

"Then we hope the Americans show up before they kill us." Sherlock said truthfully.

Jim blinked several times like he could not believe his ears. "That all? Oh, we count on the Americans do we... so reliable... always get around to doing the right thing after they have done everything else....." Jim mumbled then his face smiled and his eyes blazed black, " Got news for you, my dear,...your plan..." He took a very deep breath and screamed the last word, "SUCKS!"

John nodded and went to his pack and rummaged around. He came back with four passports handed them to Jim. "Look. You saved my life. I owe you. So here. This may help you. They will just take them if we are captured and no good to me dead. Whatever you decide, mate. This may help. Bit of cash there too. And my DWOB credentials. That opens doors, believe it or not. Bit of hair colour and a woolly jumper... you can pull it off."

Jim looked confused and touched. "Oh. I didn't expect that." He glanced at Sherlock. "I really do see. All this time and I never did. Side of the Angels. Bit one of them too?"

Sherlock briefly nodded and then turned and got behind the wheel. "Come on, John... Gilgamesh...don't want to be late for our appointment."


	40. Chapter 40

And so it was, three maniacs in a stolen Humvee embarked on a great adventure, over the mountains of the moon into the valley of the shadow. They sat patiently, watching the column of vehicles and the marching prisoners approach. Sherlock managed to spiff up a bit and practiced the name of the Daesh that they considered respectful and it was a mouthful. John checked his weapons and handed a rifle and a handgun to Lestrade.

The militants noticed them far before they arrived near. Several fighters broke from the column and approached the vehicle encroaching in their supposedly private play area. Their guns were raised and they used caution in their approach.

Sherlock stood behind the wheel and smiled regally. "I seek the current head of this operation of ad-Dawlah al-Islāmiyah, we have come to negotiate."

The ten men looked a little lost but two ran back to a grizzled looking man in a jeep wearing a much fancier set of black jimjams than the others. He rode up, and the driver parked the jeep, so he was just a few feet from Sherlock. His men formed a blockade of weapons between the two vehicles and with Regalia fluttering he slowly stood up.

In perfect, though American English, he asked, "Who the hell are you and what do you want?"

The prisoners were marched up to this stepped hillside and were being forced to kneel.

  
"Sherlock held out his diplomatic papers and announced, "By the authority of Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, I come to recognise the supreme and merciful Caliphate of ..."

Sherlock's pomp and circumstances continued in what amounted to Gibberish to Lestrade. He turned his attention to the continued proceedings of the terrorists as Sherlock hopefully worked his magic and did not simply infuriate them, as he was known to do, at times. Mycroft was on the end of the captives, closest to them.

He had raised his head at the sound of his brother's voice and though he was looking quite rough, he still conveyed his astonishing disapproval of the state of things. He rolled his eyes, unable to believe the stupidity of his younger brother.

Lestrade moved his head slightly and pulled down his sunglasses, catching Mycroft's eye. Mycroft stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending then his eyes widened in both shocked horror and something danced on his face between absolute joy and profound wretched grief. He saw Mycroft mouth the words, "Oh God no. Why?"

Greg blinked back tears, uncovered his face and gave him a small smile as if to say, deduce me. Mycroft shook his head but did not take his eyes from Greg, as if he were drawing grace from him despite the inevitable death he was about to be subjected to.

Sherlock, gained confidence and hopped from the drivers seat to confer more intimately with the Iraqi leader and he pretended to be totally unconcerned with the various rifle barrels that stalked his cranium. He boldly walked up to the man and switching back to English stated, "As you can see, our papers are in order, and we have many important things to discuss, in the mean time--"

The man turned to his men and pointed to Mycroft. "Yes, that one. The annoying one. Proceed, while I am entertained by our... guest."

At that, Mycroft was kicked forward and landed hard. Two men picked him up by the arms and Roughly yanked him forward.

"Silent now. Once our small task is complete, we will talk." The man commanded with authority.

Horrified, Sherlock stood quietly as his brother was told to read a statement. Mycroft declined and for his insolence his head was yanked down by the smallest patch of remaining hair , held in place and a large knife was raised to begin hacking at his neck.

"STOP! khalass! ntar shway! You see, her Majesty has an unimportant little bean counter, but she is quite old and he is her favourite. She humbly asked you not, " Sherlock waved his hand toward the impending execution, "Do that as a token of good will."

"Why would she have care of him? He is inconvenient and too much trouble to keep."

"Oh, I agree with you wholeheartedly, sir. He is without doubt a huge amount of trouble," Sherlock agreed in a simpering voice.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock..."Mycroft mumbled, head still bent forward, awaiting his fate.

"But, you see, his mother is also a childhood friend of the Queen herself, and I have been asked, specifically to beg for his life, at your indulgence, of course, but with great and deepest respect. It would be an act of kindness and magnanimous benefit to our mutual friendship." Sherlock spoke with sincerity.

The man thought for a moment and nodded, "The will of a mother, intervening for her child, is a thing of power in the eyes of the prophet, may peace be upon him, and for this reason, I will postpone his judgment. Instead, I allow you the authority to chose another in his place."  
The man smiled as if he were doing him a great honour, but there was a keen edge to his gesture.

"What? No. That is... I mean, with all respect..." Sherlock stammered, caught off guard.

"I have granted your wish, but if we fail to show our might, or you are not from the Authority you have claimed, then we will lose our relevance and seem weak in the eyes of the world. That cannot be. Chose who will die in the place of this man?" He demanded.

Sherlock looked down the row of frightened human beings and knew he could not condemn one for no reason. They were not in a state that he could deduce any secret so abominable that his death would serve the world and to chose one randomly without knowledge of if he was someone's father or a kind and decent brother, was beyond his ability to act. His sister had just taught him the implicit lesson that innocent and guilty died just the same, but he could not find that place far in the sky, that gave him the distance to point and take a random life.

He tried another tactic. "And when those who believe in Our messages come unto thee, say: "Peace be upon you. Your Sustainer has willed upon Himself the law of grace and mercy so that if any of you does a bad deed out of ignorance, and thereafter repents and lives righteously, He shall be much-forgiving, a dispenser of grace."

 

The man was impressed but quoted back at once, "And if they give thee the lie, say: "Limitless is your Sustainer in His grace; but His punishment shall not be averted from people who are lost in sin."

"I have come with no army. In faith," Sherlock said with dignity, "A lie, would be far better planned."

The man studied Sherlock and glanced at his companions then got down from his own seat and stood in front of Sherlock, "What tokens of friendship do you bring me? From the Queen of The British? "

"We have a little cash. We have..."

"Paper? You bring me paper?" He laughed and reached into his pocket., producing a handful of golden, hand-struck coins. "We have our own money. Made of actual gold. Paper will mean nothing. Only our coins will have power. Do not make me laugh at your paper. They bring airplanes of it from across the ocean to our neighbour and we have all the worthless paper we need. We deal in gold or silver... as you wish. If you have heard our pleas, you would know this. Where is it?"

"Well, it is not as if I can drive around in this country with it in the boot, is it? We did try to bring you a very nice Helicopter, but we were betrayed and it unfortunately crashed.!"

The man scratched his beard and looked to the north as if he were considering. "I have heard of this tragic loss. I did not realise... "

"Yes, well there were people on board who had promised us proper introduction and intended to vouch for our integrity. We may seem of suspicious circumstances, but I can assure you that the Queen has no further interest in the death of her subjects and as for the Americans, their mad orange king will crush you for it.. these are his friends. They probably play golf together. A much less friendly entourage is three days away, and may or may not be as willing to acknowledge you. But all of these people here...they came in good faith, to restore the people of this land. They are here, because they were invited to invest in this great land and though they must do so under the authority at this moment, they also hoped to establish diplomatic dialogue with the obvious future leaders of this country and instead, they have not been treated as guests." Sherlock saw the effect of his words and was wound up with his in to this man's fictional delusion.

"Instead of steps forward, you have created further obstacles to the implementation of your own goals. Pick any one of them, it is no care of mine. Kill us all if you wish. But, do note that I am standing here and all you wish is in your grasp, for as you ask, the will of God provides. Throw it away and continue this show of power or yield to the obvious choice that will make you the saviour of your generation. And frankly, I bring something far better than mere gold, for your token of hospitality, I bring you a doctor, a famous one in my land, who is worth ten times his weight in gold." Sherlock gave his finale with a wave toward John.

At this, the man was beginning to doubt that it was all a trick. He walked around to John's side and poked him as he said, "You are a Doctor, yes?"

"Yes, sir," John said with clipped deference.

"Tell me your name... famous doctor?"

"I am Captain John Watson of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers and I specialise in field medicine and general practice," John said confidently.

"Never hear of you!" The man said with challenge. He stuck out his hand toward John and demanded, "Tell me the bones broken in this hand and diagnosis what can be done for it? I will know if you are real Doctor."

John reached out and examined the hand and began assessing out loud what he saw, "Obvious crush injury with resulting Compartment pressure, untreated and causing loss of tissue in the thenar muscles and you have, no doubt been told that there is nothing to be done and the disability is permanent. I do not have a magic cure, however there are procedures that can..."

One of the soldiers came up to his commander and in heavy accent said, "I know of him. Ess true." He pulled out his mobile phone and chattered as the page loaded.

Greg tried to listen but the only words he could pick out were, "blog" and "shire..look Hole-mess"

The man's face seemed astonished and he held the phone next to John and compared the faces. "Yes. Ess him!" The younger one said enthusiastically.

They swiped the screen and held it up to compare to Sherlock. "Ess him. But no hat? Maybe a lie. He always wears hat." The young man shrugged with reservations at his endorsement.

Lestrade volunteered, "The hat got lost. In the explosion. It was on the helicopter."

"Ohhhh. I see. A great shame," The older man said with disappointment, but understanding . "I thought you liked beheadings, no?"

Sherlock smiled with a wince and great effort. "Only when I cannot identify who caused it?"

 

 

 

 

 

 


	41. Chapter 41

It immediately became clear, as they slowly descended into the outskirts of Samarra and got their first glimpse of the place the prisoners were being held that they were Royalty buggered in every way possible.

The satellite information was out of date in a massive way. This was no mud hut improvised into a prison by a disorderly bunch of tyrannical half-wits. This was a base. This was a complex. Six guys, a criminal mastermind, a fire bug and an injured Helo pilot had exactly zero point zero several digits out, chance of breaking into this and rescuing them.

Sherlock and Greg rode with the head Poobah, which was Greg's limit on Arabic sounding titles and he endeavoured to simply keep his mouth as shut as possible. The drive was hair raising and though Greg had managed to squeeze in right next to Mycroft, there was no real hope of deep conversation. Instead he put his hand on Mycroft's neck, as if to steady him, as if to make sure the knife could not reach him, and held them in place using the roll bar as his stabiliser.

The poobah had looked at him once and nodded at this action, "That one, you hold on to him. He was drugged and may fall off. He is terrible and fights. Not a good prisoner, naughty one."

Sherlock smirked at the description.

"How have you kept this hidden? My satellite image shows a single building?"

"We have an artistic painter. How did you find us?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I am Sherlock Holmes. It is what I do. "

"You should not have come," Mycroft said low to Greg.

Greg shook his head and looked over at him, "You promised me errmmm...refreshments, London style. Wanted to make sure you were in one piece for that. Besides, John was afraid he'd put you on the mantle at Baker Street... I was not sure he was joking."

Mycroft frowned and leaned towards him slightly, turning his head to speak in his ear, "I doubt he was, so if that should occur, steal me."

When they pulled into the compound the Poobah spoke apologetically and explained he had many duties but he would be checking their credentials and then get back to them. " Until that time, I am afraid you will have to be locked up for safety. But, because you are guests now... no chains. Free to walk around ,"He said with great generosity.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft and his lips were thinned with disgust.

The Poobah pointed at Mycroft. "Except for this one. He cannot be trusted."

Sherlock spoke gently, "if it pleases you, sir, I will assure his good behaviour. I would appreciate it very much."

Poobah looked at Sherlock fondly and replied, "For you, I will consent. If he gives you troubles, you let me know. I do hope so much that you are who you claim to be. I will not enjoy killing you. We are much alike, I think. Both great minds. We will have much to converse about, I am certain."

Sherlock smiled as if agreeing.

Of course their packs were searched and their weapons confiscated. Sherlock made a bit of a show of "presenting" certain items to Poobah that they were going to steal anyway, which delighted the man to no end. He was especially excited about the night vision goggles which were a damned good nick and Sherlock carefully explained the features as he tried to build a mind map of the complex.

Eventually they were led to their various cells. They were put in a large room that smelled like a toilet, due to the several buckets of waste smouldering around the perimeter of the room. The apparent set up was two sets of shackles fitted to the neck and attached to the wall with a shared bucket between them. Strangely, though not shackled, the other prisoners in Mycroft's cell simply took to their familiar places and curled up to sleep. They were bleary eyed and did not seem to care about their new cell mates or if they were free.

John was not with them. When his pack was searched, the various medical supplies made it evident that he alone must be telling the truth so he was asked (ordered) to spend his afternoon seeing to the men of this army of terror. At least he was away from the stench of the makeshift toilets.

Sarcastic and furious Mycroft waited about eight heartbeats after the lock clanked to lay into his brother, "What in the hell do you think you are doing here?"

"I am rescuing you!" Sherlock said as if he thought it was obvious.

"Oh. Is that what you call it? Let me see, you are in here and freedom is out there. How's that going so far?"

"Oh, I don't know, your head is still attached to the rest of you? I deduced that by the way your gob is flapping. Rethinking that action at the moment."

"Welcome home, Sherlock. The only thing you have accomplished is that Mummy with have two of us to bury. And of all The idiocy... the unmitigated stupidity... you brought him? How could you?" Mycroft shook with anger.

"Hey. I came because I wanted to. He did not twist my arm," Greg said offended.

Mycroft glared at him. " Well, he should have. He should have done everything in his power to keep you away... You will die here for nothing. You of all people should have known better, Sherlock. I will never forgive you. I won't have to live long with your error, thank God, but I will have to live with the fact you allowed your lack of judgement to murder him as well. I am ashamed of you for this as never before."

Greg had heard enough of it. "How dare you. Mycroft Holmes, you are an arse! We have been through bloody hell, just to get here. Just to take a shot. For you? And do not blame him. How dare you act like he...I am a grown damned man... not some child. Neither is he for that matter. And we came. You needed us and we came. You would be dead, right this minute if we hadn't. We do actually have a plan, you know? If you'd even listen."

"Oh? A plan? Lovely, do go on? Did it include giving them more fodder for their inconceivable parade of evil? Because if that is your plan, it seems to be going swimmingly!"

"Jim will come. He will think of something and he will come!" Greg assured.

Mycroft frowned and looked slightly taken aback and interested. "Jim? Jim who?"

Sherlock looked miserable, "Probably ought to shut up now."

Mycroft smiled waiting to be enlightened. "Gregory? You have a man on the outside? That is better than my expectation. Jim who?"

Sherlock moved closer to Mycroft and nodded at Greg to tell him the rest.

"Jim Moriarty. He got us down here and..,"

Sherlock interrupted, "And three, two, one... there he goes."

Sherlock rushed forwards to catch his brother.

Mycroft fainted.

 


	42. Chapter 42

Lestrade looked down at the man in his lap as he stroked his mostly bald head. They had shaved the heads of the prisoners and though Greg knew they did it as part of a dehumanising strategy, and that it was just hair, it still angered him to no end.

Mycroft must have struggled against them, because he was left with one patch that stuck up like some dirty punk rock ode. His hair was just barely growing, giving his scalp a velvet feel. His beard was a very bright ginger and there was something about him that looked half-elvish and half-dwarven. It was probably a terrible thing to think, but Greg was enjoying this glimpse of Mycroft undone. He felt as if he was protecting a very intimate secret. Greg found this human side, body odour and unshaven and pealing sunburnt skin, quite charming.

Sherlock observed Greg and smiled fondly. The way Greg sat, back against the wall, cradling his brother as if he were precious even after he had been so cross, made him feel pleased in some strange way. Someone loved his big brother as much as he did, and this person was actually capable of expressing it whereas Sherlock could only show it by contrast rather than compassion.

"You think he's alright? Been out a long time." Greg asked after a while.

The other prisoners had only moved for frequent trips to the buckets, but otherwise ignored them completely. One had positioned himself to watch Sherlock pace, his eyes followed him, but he made no move to speak or ask questions about the days events.

That disturbed Greg a little. His own curiosity would have had him demanding all sorts of answers if the roles were reversed. It mortified him to see them use the buckets as if this was normal. The fact the same water container and cup was used for sanitation and drinking was a very rude awakening.

Sherlock paused his pacing and tilted his head. "He is a bit shocky perhaps, but he was drugged with who knows what, and knowing him, this is the first time he has slept since his check in, here at beautiful Hotel California... the rest will do him good. I think your presence is the key. Something in him is aware that he is watched over. I seem to have a similar reaction to your proximity."

"You just like to be petted, like a cat," Greg teased. "You knew he was going to faint when you let me tell him. Does he faint often?"

"He is not prone to fainting since he was much younger. As a teen, he fainted right after every speech or debate. Locked his knees and down he'd go. Out grew the nerves after he got older."

"But you knew? You got close to catch him, just before."

"He was pale, had stopped perspiring, and his heart rate was elevated, and he was overtly angry... combine those indicators with the fact he has probably not eaten for days and it was a simple deduction to assume that one part of our news or another would give him a pop into the land of overwhelmed. We should tell him of our engagement as soon as he rouses. See if we can go for a twofer. If we play it right, the news of his new brother-in-law, the destruction of Sherrinford, the escape of our sister, and the fact that we are now at the total mercy of a dead man he tortured once... this could go on all night." Sherlock grinned as if he had a new crime scene to explore.

"I am in hell. I did not even feel it. I thought death would be more painful and the afterlife would be restful. Instead, I hurt everywhere there is a nerve cell and I am locked in a room with Satan in the form of my idiot baby brother." Mycroft said without opening his eyes or even twitching into awareness. "All we need is a little fire and our human inventions of mythical retribution for the ravings of old world lunatics will be complete. Siger will be so pleased to win our longstanding wager."

"Welcome back. By the way, your brain must weight more than normal people's, because you are killing my circulation," Greg said and wiggled under him a little.

"Considering that I just hallucinated an inference that my sister has somehow married a man with whom my fingers had intimate knowledge of the interior of his cranium, and the fact that if I crack open my eyes, there may be a cerebral haemorrhage of nuclear proportions, the weight of my head is hardly surprising. I feel it best to acknowledge that at this juncture, I prefer to believe in hell." Mycroft reached up and put his hand to his forehead and rubbed aggressively.

Sherlock came over and plopped down beside them and pulled his brother's eyelids up.

"Stop that!" Mycroft batted at his hand and struggled to sit up.

"You need water. You are incredibly dehydrated," Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Yes, obviously. I am not fool enough to partake of any unboiled liquids in this area of the world. Notice the energy and general well being of my companions." He made it to a sitting position, winced, waved at the others and rested his head on his bent knees," Dysentery will kill you as quickly as dehydration, faster actually due to the combination of the two, however the excessive need for the buckets is foregone without the joy of the dreaded lurgy. As you can now predict with my obvious symptoms, you have only slightly postponed the inevitable and another few days here will see to me one way or the other. I made the decision based on my experience with each end. When I fall into a coma, I will at least have the dignity of not having repeatedly soiled myself in the interim."

"Death in clean pants. At least you have your priorities sorted," Greg said with a chuckle.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and added, "Well, clean-ish..."

"Oh sod off, Sherlock. Instead, be of some use and kindly explain precisely how the references I heard upon awakening could possibly link together in any logical sequence." Mycroft was now digging into his eye sockets with ferocious purpose.

The good news is that after the ordeal of telling Mycroft all that had happened in his immediate absence, Mycroft had a surge of determination and purpose. He had always assumed that like all the goldfish of the world that he too was dispensable and that he would leave this world as a minor blip of inconvenience to a few people and no more. It was somehow very gratifying to learn that without him, the entire bloody world descended into chaos in a matter of days.

Evening approached and the call to prayer was blared over the speakers. All in the room stood automatically and faced a doodle on the wall approximating a pointy platter of pooh. Lestrade looked at them like they were insane. "Why are we looking at a something a five year old drew?"

"Shhhhhhh," Sherlock hissed. "That drawing shows us where Mecca is in relation to where we are. The Kaaba is their most holy site, this represents the sacred Blackstone, probably a meteorite, and they have several quasi myths that explain. They do not force prayer, but they do demand respect. So you stand."

"What happens if I don't?"

"They shoot you."

Lestrade thought for a moment. "So the good news is that there IS an alternative to the beheading thing."

"Do shut up."

Lestrade thought for another minute. "For how long?"

After ten minutes of Lestrade asking random questions the sound of footsteps could be heard. The door opened and John was not shoved, but strongly directed with forceful assistance, into the room. His initial reaction, to back right back out, was thwarted by the slamming door and finality of the clicking lock.

His shirt was at once popped over his nose and a muffled "Oh Jesus.... that stinks." He took one look around the room and sagged. "And dysentery...Of course. Entamoeba histolytica from the smell... Jolly. My favourite. Okay...here we go."

John spent the next hour, moving around the room, speaking to each person and explaining that they must not drink from the water provided for toilet.

He finally came to stand near his friends and realised that Mycroft alone had managed to remain free of the effects but at a high price. " And on the other hand, you have not been drinking at all. I know you get tea... that is boiled and not safe but ... you have not been drinking even that, have you? How bad is the headache?" John reasoned and questioned at the same time, hanging his head and shaking it with exhaustion.

Mycroft smiled at John with amused fondness, "Well, you are back with us, all guns afire again, I see? You had me very worried. I should imagine at my current rate of speed, I may remain lucid for the next thirty-six hours or so. I am already hallucinating that my sister may be addressed as Mrs. Moriarty and that my little brother and seemingly solid pals, got themselves locked up with me in some cockamamy syllogism that beggars belief in my continued sagacity."

Sherlock added with his normal tone when speaking to his brother, "Ahh... always something to look forward to, then? I always thought you were off your crackers so this should be figured in to the plus side of the column. Do note that down, John. Getting to see Mycroft lose his mind? No downside could possibly spoil that lifetime achievement... you work at it and hope, but the actuality is far--"

"Sherlock!" John held up his finger. "Leave it? We need to get fluids in him... now. All of them, in fact. Crisis? Vatican Cameos in slow motion?"

Sherlock met John's eye defiantly then seemed to become crestfallen into shame. "I know," he whispered. "So does he. There is nothing to be done. Their only option is the cause, not the cure. They took our filter straws. He spent most of the afternoon unconscious," he said, addressing the floor.

John nodded. "Okay. So what do we do? How do we fix this?"

Sherlock looked up and saw everyone looking to him for an answer. His posture straightened and he shook off his doubt. "We maintain our fiction as long as they oblige and we hope their scary pretend sky fairy allows them to make a mistake."

John tried to maintain his cool, but a giggle snorted out, " Did you just call God a fairy?"

Everyone tried not to laugh but Lestrade just had to add, "Well, he did make Rainbows."

Guards appeared at the door, confused at the commotion.

 

 

 

 


	43. Chapter 43

John kindly asked to speak to Poobah, Lestrade had learned his name was,Mahmoud Seleth Shafar, and he could sort of at least pronounce it, because it was under fifty syllables. He still preferred to think of him as Poobah.

John was escorted alone out of the room and was gone for some time.

Strangely, an hour later, two soldiers opened the door and delivered two litre bottles of cola with an obvious red and white swirl and Arabic writing. "Dok Tor say you drunk and two each. Medicine for sick. " With that the door was closed.

Lestrade got up and took the bottles to each person. He was beginning to get used to the stench and he squatted and spoke to each man. He helped two of them open the drinks and assured them that this was not a trick.

He brought the drinks over to Mycroft and with crossed arms, Mycroft shook his head and made a face.

"You need to drink..."

The door opened again and a smiling John came in triumphantly, "We bought out one shop... only one open and only open because it was owned by a cousin of the driver. So, Shafar let me use the cash. Even threw in some of his coins for us. Afraid if his charges die, he would look incompetent. Mycroft, I just did that for you... mostly... why are you not drinking?"

"I don't drink fizzy drinks and specifically not that one." He explained softly.

"He does not get along with Warren Buffet... so he is being pig-headed," Sherlock explained.

Lestrade laughed and shoved the bottle at him. "Make an exception, you complete nutter."

John snorted then shook his head, smiling with anger. "I literally, just risk my life in a trip into the city of Samarra, in a World War Two jeep that has more bullet holes than you have freckles... banged on an Iraqi shopkeepers door and begged him to do emergency business on their sabbath in order to get thirty-six captives and...you... something clean to drink, because I need a hundred IV's and have zero! So despite what the bloody Movies would have you believe about making them out of car parts, I do not want to introduce Septicemia to those already trying to die in this hell hole."

John's smile widened as he took a step forward to emphasise his words. "So you stand there and refuse my efforts. Go ahead. And when you pass out on the bloody floor, I will rehydrate you by way of proctoclysis infusion...hmmm? Term familiar to you? Oral or rectal ... totally your choice!"

Sherlock burst out laughing, "Oh brother, for the love of my mind palace, save me that vision. Drink the damned Coke?"

Mycroft grumbled and cursed under his breath, but he took the large bottle of warm cola and began sipping it. He made faces, but he drank.

"How did you talk him into it?" Sherlock asked, impressed.

"I told him what they all have is contagious to his people. I explained that the acid in soft drinks would help kill it. We used the money we brought and he had confiscated. They were about thirteen hundred Denali each. Had enough for everything the man had in his shop. Some rumour that Pepsi has pig in it, may not be halal but they have this. Told Shafar his solders could prevent getting sick by drinking it too and washing their hands after touching prisoners."

Sherlock lifted his own bottle and drank with relish, then belched loudly.

John rolled his eyes in amusement. "I May have exaggerated the danger a bit, but they will probably handle captives with much more care, not wanting to get sick from contact. They have agreed to boil drinking water in the future. I need antibiotics too, but they took all those and I don't even have those for Sherlock now. Kind of a plaster on an amputation, but it was the best I could do for the night."

"You also just did something even better. You came back. It was a test. See if he could trust you," Sherlock said, well pleased.

"If I hadn't you know they would have killed you. The drinking situation won't resolve this, but It buys us time. Should perk them all up a bit. Help settle their stomachs...."

About that time there was a moan, and retching sounds. John sighed heavily. "I told them to tell them to just sip it... shit."

They barely got the word passed and John had just finally sat down himself when more guards appeared at the door. The evening meal was brought, small bowls of rice with bread. But John, Sherlock and Lestrade were instructed to follow them out.

They were led, under a guard of six, out into the darkened compound. No light was visible from the buildings and the stars hung heavy and brilliant in the sky. Lestrade could not help but gasp in awe. He had never seen stars like this. Despite the wash of city lights on the horizon, this sky was breathtaking.

"The stars! Are they always like that?" Greg asked as they walked.

"Get away from all cities on a cold night and when you look up, you are sure they are about six feet away. The whole Milky Way shines in purples and golden swirls. It is the one thing I miss in London," John answered.

"Where are we going? They going to shoot us or something?" Greg asked as if unconcerned, his eyes fastened on the night sky.

"I think we are being invited to dinner. Could be wrong. But they rarely do beheadings in the dark." Sherlock winked at John, enjoying his ability to make Greg wonder if he were serious.

Lestrade did not reply, just shoved his hands in his pocket and kept walking.

The other building was smaller and windowless. Berms on two sides explained why it was difficult to see on a satellite image. Everything was set to camouflage. Even the pavement was painted to look like stones and scrubby bush. The whole place a facade.

Their guards knocked on a metal door and a narrow strip of golden-orange light briefly shown in the night. They were allowed to enter then the door slammed closed. Inside a narrow hallway led to a landing and a set of stairs beyond. Two guards took up positions on each side of the stairs and stayed behind. They were shown down the stairs to another hallway with several doors. The guard knocked on the first one to the left and they waited.

  
Mahmoud Shafar answered the door himself and smiled pleasantly.  
John entered with a little bow and said, "Salaam Aleikum" He shook Shafar's offered hand and bent to unlaced his boots, removing them and placing them by the door. Sherlock did the same.

Greg said something close to what the others had. "Sally Alley Come."

His host smiled and said slowly, "Wa alaikum salaam."  
Seeing the others removing their boots, he realised he too was expected to follow.  
Greg sighed and sat on the floor for the process of unlacing his paratroopers nightmare boots. He hurried and the others were shown down the hall. Bowls with clean water were offered.

He washed his hands but also splashed water on his face and tried to do his best washing the stitches on his head as well. They had grown sore and he figured they were going to be infected soon, between the dirt, the pasty grease paint they had used to darken his skin and all the sweating he had done since arriving. The water was disgraceful when he finished. John and Sherlock had dampened the towels provided and wiped themselves off. They stared in amused horror at the disaster Greg made splashing water all over. Greg moped it up a little bit gave up and sighed as he followed them back to the main room.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable. " Mahmoud gestured for them to sit on a carpet at the centre of the room. John took a seat on the man's right, Sherlock on the left, Greg sat cautiously cross legged across from him, a large silver platter between them. There was tea upon the platter and Mahmoud set about preparing it and passing it to each person.

  
The two escorts stood on either side of the door with blank faces. After everyone had a few sips of the very sweet tea, or tea flavoured syrup, as Lestrade would remember it, a woman, covered with full burqa brought an even larger platter filled with steaming dishes and placed them in the centre of the carpet.

Greg grinned, thinking he had not eaten on the floor since he was just a kid but he was at once directed to look down and not acknowledge her.

Mahmoud kindly explained, "In your country, to acknowledge is polite. Here is polite to cast eyes down and wait for woman to finish, that she have her modesty. You see? You no insult her by not thanking. You thank her and give her joy, by enjoying her labor, yes?"

"Sorry. I don't mean to offend." Greg said sincerely.

Sherlock whispered, "Only your right hand for eating. Remember. "

Small plates were distributed and a rather tired utensil to each person Sherlock and Mahmoud were given forks and John and Greg were handed spoons.

  
"Allahomma barik lana fima razaqtana waqina athaban-nar. Bismillah."

"Bismillah" John and Sherlock said.

Mahmoud began dishing small amounts of food onto his plate and he took a huge flat bread disk and passed the same to the others. Greg watched Sherlock carefully and did exactly as he did. John much more comfortable than the others deftly transferred small portions to his plate and using bread alone, began eating.

"What did your families think of you deciding to come here? Did they approve?"

"I do not have any close family. These two, sort of like brothers." John said carefully. "What about you. Is your family in good health?"

Mahmoud' face showed resignation and sorrow "Once, I was blessed with six brothers and four sisters. All married and had families. Sadly, I am now the head of a house of but three. Myself, my sister and her son. All the others have been wiped from the earth. May Allah give them peace. Two of my brothers were doc-tors... like you. The rest were policemen," He looked at Lestrade, "Like you. And I was a teacher, a man of science and books." He looked at Sherlock, "Like you?"

John answered softly, "I am sorry to hear that for you. How did you get... I mean, you are obviously a decent man...this must be very difficult from teacher to... soldier?"

Mahmoud turned to his guards. He spoke quickly, and they looked confused. He spoke again and they laughed and left.

"First, let me hear from Sherlock Holmes? Yes? They say you can tell someone's whole life as a glance. They say you are a Djinn who still can eavesdrop on the angels like in the time before our blessed prophet, may peace be upon him. "

"No. Please. You really don't want that. I know it sounds like great fun and amazing but he cannot control it once he starts and I do not wish to be shot--"John had tried to intervene.

"John, it is fine."

John looked over at Greg. "Eat as much of this delicious food, as fast as you can. We are about to be... at the very least, thrown out."

Sherlock glanced around the room, there were almost no personal items here. He stood and spun in place anyway, looking at the few grainy pictures on the wall.

"You grew up in Baghdad, your father was a shopkeeper, success until the time You went away to college...in America. Fell for an American girl too... they are so different from hometown girls, but She would not come to Baghdad and you could not stay there. You came for a visit, mostly to renew your visa, but you never went back. Things were not as great as Mum and Dad had led you to think. You came home and did the dutiful son mantra of marry a nice Baghdad beauty and make a football team of sons. You did just that and were happy...oh. I am sorry." Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed.

"You are doing splendidly. Continue." Mahmoud looked at him with amused peace on his face.

"They were killed. In one fell swoop you lost all of them." He shook his head softly and his eyes reflected the others pain.

"I did. You see, I had been to America and I was therefore insane and my Baghdad Beauty was a Catholic girl. We vowed to raise our children as emissaries of peace between the religions. It was considered quite odd and yet, at the time, one in my position could, with significant aggravation from my beloved mother for betrayal of my faith and horrified anger from her family, we still managed a small peace. Times did change... we did our best and we were mostly accepted as an exception. She and I respected both traditions to the letter. She died in her church, our children by her side one Halloween. "

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He took his seat and sipped the tea syrup.

Mahmoud looked well pleased with himself and took on the demeanour of a wise old professor about to deliver the punchline to the story.

" Do you believe in the Djinn? Sherlock Holmes? I always have. I saw one as a child. I met another once and felt friendship towards him until that day. "

The man bent forward and picked up a small grape leaf wrapped morsel and popped it into his mouth.

"He died too... I never found out. They say you have died as well, yet here you are. Like a prophet... come back to life. That is blasphemy in my world. Forbidden to make yourself a god. " His eyes danced but his intentions were unreadable.

  
"Here is the thing. You think you play me for a fool, and yet you look just exactly like him. You know of whom I speak, yes? Malak Al-Maut ·? "

 

Sherlock dropped his eyes and said a soft, "Yes."

"You know, it is a funny thing, deception, sometimes you fool others and sometimes you only fool you? Now, in private, explain to me who you really are, Djinn, and why you are really here. You look just like him," he seemed to recall with nostalgia, "Just not as tall as I expected."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
~~~~~~~~  
Yes it is a real thing. Old time Docs still did this when I was little. They also made house calls! Good times...lol.  
Proctoclysis – rectal rehydration Rectal infusion (proctoclysis) was effectively employed as an emergency treatment during the First World War for combat casualties and routinely used for infusion in clinical settings before the development of IV techniques and equipment rendered the practice out of fashion.

  
Arabic: Allahomma barik lana fima razaqtana waqina athaban-nar. Bismillah.  
English: Oh Allah! Bless the food You have provided us and save us from the punishment of the hellfire. In the name of Allah.


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock was reticent to speak. "I deal in reality, not prophets or their magic."

  
The man was obviously not satisfied with that answer.

"You make me wonder. Are you Al-Masih ad-Dajjal ? Or...Isa will descend on Mount Afeeq, on the white Eastern Minaret of Damascus. He will descend from the heavens with his hands resting on the shoulders of two angels. Perhaps  
Malik Al-Amlak..the king of kings? "

"I am neither a god, nor ruler, nor false prophet,"Sherlock said carefully.

"I read of a prophecy, my wife taught to me." He brought his small book forth and put on his glasses. He peeped over the tops to make certain he had his audiences full attention. Then he read slowly from the book of Revelation. "Now I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse. And He who sat on him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He judges and makes war. "

  
He looked up again and glanced at the three men as if they could easily share his logic, then continued, "His eyes were like a flame of fire, and on His head were many crowns. He had a name written that no one knew except Himself."

"What precisely is your point?" Sherlock was angry and quickly becoming more so.

John quietly put his spoon down and frowned. "I don't understand, what is happening. Sherlock?"

"He is making accusations that I am the Islamic version of the Anti-Christ. It is punishable by ..." he licked his lips and looked away before whispering the final word, "immolation."

Mahmoud looked up at this point and leaned forward. "No. That is not what I say. Faithful and true and eyes of fire. That man. That man I have met. That man, I know. You look like him and same name. This I want you to explain... and why you come. Here. To me?"

"Out of pure terror, I prefer to remain silent."

Mahmoud huffed in frustration. He leaned forward and plucked a grape from the bunch and nibbled it. "You are not he of one eye. I was wrong to make the comment. The false one was told as a man with one eye. We know this. You are no eyes. You believe in nothing. That man was of two eyes, you see? With one eye, he saw Islam... and with the other eye he saw Rome? Hmmm? Very sad."

Sherlock sat silently with his eyes cast downwards. He chewed the inside of his lip.

John wiggled in place and turned towards their host, "Mahmoud, sir, we do not understand. You are trying to explain something of great importance. But, I am unable to follow your logic. Can you clarify for us, so we do not make a mistake."

Mahmoud pointed at Sherlock with his whole hand. "He knows exactly what I say. You think we are so backwards here. There has been talk for years now that he will return. I have lost hope, but I am a desperate man. They say that in the east he has risen from dust and if I am wrong, I beg the forgiveness of Allah, but I hope. He knows of what I speak but misunderstood why?"

"Forgive my foolishness but I am still lost." John said in a placating voice.

Mahmoud turned to address John, "You know what the Islamic state wants. Their goal?"

John answered carefully, "Control. Power? To spread their brand of faith?"

"Give me your real heart, Doctor. Do the actions you see here seem godly?" Mahmoud asked.

John dropped his eyes then bravely said, "No. No they do not. Not to me. It was hell the first time I was here and it has got worse. Sorry, but you asked."

"Thank you. What do they seek? Worse than power. They seek the final battle. It is constantly spoken of. There is not reasoning. This is what the west cannot see. That is the simple line between every battle."

"There are too many factions and they change far too fast to even keep up with. People stop caring," John said truthfully.

Sherlock said as if he just understood, "My sister says that disinterest is far more evil than murder or hatred."

  
"And she is right! The tribes, the names, the history does not matter. Good men have been fooled into doing the very work of evil. And become evil because of what has befallen them. It is always the same battle, over and over. The people of the west do not believe in the end of days, so they deny what is right before their eyes. But, here, we already have seen it."

John thought for a moment, "You mean Armageddon. Yet, you are fighting with them. You want the proverbial trumpets to sound? Don't you think that is... hypocritical? Doing their bidding? Knowing what you do and doing nothing to stop it?"

"John! No." Sherlock warned.

  
"Do you not see what I have done, just now? I have put together the voices of two and made one. That was the magic of Malak Al-Maut. He was gods own warrior. A holy man. " Mahmoud said without offence, ignoring Sherlock and now focusing on John.

"I know a bit of what you say. This Angel of death. Isn't he part of that? The pale rider? You seek this friend of yours because you want to help the end of the world along?" John challenged.

Mahmoud snapped the bible closed. With a heavy sigh he shook his head. The tension in the room was building. But when he spoke it was only with disappointment. "No. You do not understand prophesy as I do. You believe either they are simple minded garbage or set in stone. For me, they are instead a warning."

"But they also can be simply making them people's goal. I did not become a doctor because my Gran said I would be, when I was five. I worked at it... her words did not make it occur," John said.

Mahmoud smiled widely with huge yellow teeth and excitement, "Yes! Now you see. "

John still looked confused so Lestrade asked politely, "Well, I don't see what you mean. Are you saying you are actually for it or against it?"

"If someone had told you three hours ago, that the food we were eating was all poisoned, would you have eaten?" Mahmoud asked, to all, but his eyes not leaving John.

John looked at the food before him and wiped his mouth on the small paper serviette. "No. Can't say I would have?" John pushed his plate away.

"You would have been warned and it would change an outcome. Next question, would you have warned me?"

John smiled and tilted his head in capitulation of the obvious, "Possibly not. I would most likely assume you poisoned us."

"That is the difference. You would come to dinner and try to save yourself. Try to fix the injury to the victims. I would go straight to the kitchen and hope my eyes could see the path to prevent that from happening at all."

John frowned and nodded in contemplation.

Lestrade picked up his plate and refilled it from the various dishes. Everyone looked at him amused for one reason or the other. "What? I would enjoy the dinner because poison is better, in my humble opinion, than getting your head cut off or burning. And it is delicious, by the way. Best meal I have had in ages. So if is my last, Cheers!"

Mahmoud laughed and responded, "Ahhhh. I am honoured to have the wisest among us at my very table."

Greg looked around, "More of a carpet, really. But, I well like eating on the floor... may do it from now on... kind of fun."

Mahmoud raised his syrupy tea to Greg and said, "A man who bows to the will of Allah and sees blessings in all around him."

"Or an idiot, who is guided by his stomach," Sherlock added.

"One of us will not be dying hungry and that will be me." Lestrade sapped up some sauce on the bread and bit it with relish.

John took a deep breath and asked, just glancing up and then back down to his hands, "So you are inferring that you have reached this position by fighting the battle from within? Am I hearing that correctly?"

Mahmoud stood and left the room. He returned swiftly with a candle. "I wait for the one with eyes of fire. Observe." He lit the candle and they watched the flame settle and burn steady.

"Well, that is romantic, but it is just a candle." John said, glancing at Sherlock with a momentary smile.

"There are many ways to see, eyes on fire." He took a small skewer and pointed at the top of the flame. "This is what many expect. Eyes that are yellow or flame red like the Shatan, the fire of ifrits and demons. They are fooled. " He moved his indicator to the bottom of the flame. "I seek the man with eyes like this. The hottest fire. The dancing blue fire of the Djinn. Look at his eyes, John Watson, and tell me that I am wrong to hope. The man I seek with burning eyes and hair of flame...perhaps it is just a coincidence. I am growing old and foolish." Mahmoud placed the skewer back on his plate sadly and obviously embarrassed by his own words, blew out the candle.

"Sherlock, the bright head?" John wondered aloud. "You think he is going to prevent the ..."

"Enough. He is my brother. Of course I know of whom you speak. He did survive the massacre that deprived you of your family. He was saved by our other brother, Mycroft. Who is currently locked in your rather dreary prison. That is why we are here, Mahmoud. If you actually are what you say, then help us?"

Greg blurted, "Oh God. All this time he has been asking about your brother?"

John turned to them, "Mycroft?"

Lestrade shook his head, "No the other one? "

"Other one? There are more? How did I not know... How did you know?" John asked, forgetting where he was.

Greg shrugged, "Met him, just before everything went to hell in a handbag. Eurus sent me. Left you at Sherrinford and went straight to him. To make my confession."

John was in that mode between shocked and curious that sort of bled into anger. "Confession of what?"

Greg began to explain, "He is a priest. He saw through me in seconds and ...God you mix Mycroft's temper with Sherlock's mouth... Add a dose of Eurus' madness, shaken not stirred, pour it in a cassock and add religion... He is the stuff of nightmares!"

John turned to Sherlock, "Any more of you that you forgot to mention? Because it really makes me question exactly why I am here, you know? If we are friends then I assume that I know you... and it seems every time I blink, you prove that I actually don't."

"That is hardly fair. You have met most of my siblings and I have never met yours? I sometimes wondered if she even existed or if she is just your pre-wedding 'Beth' you invented to get out of doing things. A fabricated alcoholic you use to get away from me. If it had not been for the adoption, her existence would have been ..."Sherlock stopped, realising his error.

John crossed his arms and glared, " You? Who in their right mind would give my daughter to you? I will kill him. What I get for trusting bloody Mycroft Holmes, isn't it?"

Sherlock looked hurt, and began, "John..." but his words trailed off.

Mahmoud interrupted the bickering, "Which man is your brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered, "The one you were about to behead this morning?"

"No. That is impossible. He? He I would believe is the King of all the Devils of time--"

"We all think that, I assure you," Sherlock said with a sarcastic smile and a tilt of his head.

"No we don't!" Greg said quickly, mouth still full, trying to swallow.

"Except for him. He likes him." Sherlock looked upward and rocked his head as if it were a comment on Greg's poor taste.

Mahmoud had his small book in his hand again. He withdrew from the back a faded photograph. The colours were warped into browns and sticky greens but he sat it with reverence in front of Sherlock. "Is this your brother? Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced at it and said, "Yes. Much younger there. He had scars when he returned. Is that you?" Sherlock passed it to John with two fingers.

"Wow. That is... bit weird. He is a ginger Sherlock , but... how tall is he? Must dwarf you and Mycroft."

"All of the Djinn are very tall. This is known to us. He is almost seven feet tall!" Mahmoud explained with absolute precision.

Sherlock sighed. "He is 200 centimetres. He is not a giant or anything."

The photo was passed on to Greg; a handsome young priest , a head and more taller than a dashing young Arab man, grinned at the camera arm in arm, a woman, like a dark-skinned Jaqueline Kennedy fashion plate of modesty and modernist, complete with pill box hat. In her arms, a tiny baby.

"That was taken Just after my son's christening. I was only allowed his light and joy for seven years... his. ..Name was Siger, after my best friend in all the world." Mahmoud could not help but wipe the tears away. He shook his head and wiped, then added. "I have now read your blog. Doctor. I have had to believe in mine for far longer, but you see. I saw Sherlock yesterday and, I believed. You have yours back. Perhaps, if Allah permits, someday I too will be reunited."

  
John had tears threatening in his eyes, realising all at once that this man and he had so very much in common and John felt weak and pitiful in the face of what this man had endured. He cleared his throat. "Be careful what you wish for."

"I think we should speak to this brother of yours too. I will send for Mycrotch at once."

"Croft. Mycroft," Lestrade corrected.

"Don't be so picky, Gunther. Your pronunciation is perfectly acceptable, Mahmoud. I actually prefer it." Sherlock said happily sipping his tea syrup and nibbling at a date.

 

 

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<<<<>>>>~~~~~~~~~

Hidden bits--- 200 cm is equal to 6 foot 6.6 inches

Azrael is associated with the Angel of Death or the grim reaper or Malak Al-Maut.. in various lore this being is good but should be feared. As the pale rider of revelation... he is an indication that the rapture is upon us. He is also the righteous warrior who will reap only the evil in some manifestations and his eyes will be that of flame. (I made up the blue fire bit because I am way more into Djinn lore than can be explained). Djinn are made of the smokeless fire of god and used to be able to listen to the words of angels then report back to man. They have reams of lore and I am simply playing in these parallels... fictionally.

  
Al-Masih_ad-Dajjal - the deceiver

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Masih_ad-Dajjal

 

* In another Hadith, the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be on him) mentioned, “Allah will send Maseeh ibne Maryam (Messiah son of Mary). Thus he will descend near the white eastern minaret of Damascus, clad in two yellow sheets, leaning on the shoulders of two angels.” [Sahih Muslim]

 

Who was Siger of Brabant?  
http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/13784a.htm

 

Old Swedish name made from the name elements Sig- "victory" + -her "army."

 

 

You do not need this to follow the story, I just like to include bits that may help you read why and how I make certain choices.

 

 

 


	45. Chapter 45

The photograph was returned to Mahmoud and he held it for a moment before rousing himself from his memories with a sniff and quickly tucking it in its safe hidden place inside the book. He sighed thoughtfully and said to them, "All the gold in the world is not worth this to me. It is frowned on strongly that I keep this, but you see these stains here?" He held the book out showing deep brown discolourations. "That is from the day my life stopped. It looks like a bit of rubbish to your eyes...but that blood is the purest thing on this whole earth and it was spilled for nothing but the ego of a man that would burn another's holy book out of ignorance. Ahh, but that was just an excuse. If not his threat it would have been some other outrage. They killed children who only wished to know all the words of Allah. What must have gone through their minds that day, as the priest was shot in his pulpit? Is terrible thing to live wondering." He brought the book to his lips with reverence. 

Sherlock spoke with hesitant, quiet sorrow, "My brother was not the same. He came back but...but he was no longer my brother. Before, he was otherworldly to me, but always laughing. He speaks of it, with distance. But, I have only seen him in person a few times. They could have fixed most of the damage to his face, well, that whole side of his body, but he would not let them. I never understood it. Perhaps, now, I do." He glanced at John, head tilting slightly as if to apologise. Then, his focus back on the tearful Arab, he asked, "Were you there?"

"I was and I was not. I took them through the checkpoint. I thought the coming and going was the danger. I left to go to Mosque and I had just begun my own prayers when there was a commotion. I heard them in the outside chambers speaking of the tragic killing. I rushed back but they would not allow me near. Your brother had many in a safe room but they were not finished. They forced their way in and had a bomb. It was chaos. I dug through rubble, searching. They had taken your brother. I knew not where. They said he would not live. A wall fell on me and crushed my hand digging for my family. All gone.

"My home was destroyed very soon after and since then too much tragedy to speak. I came to the kitchen to fight against the poison. The fighting is going on to the north. This, is just a training centre. But in some ways, I save many lives. People said I betrayed them all, by joining the murderers. But they all come to me when they are in trouble. They have a son who is wanting to prove he is great man? He thinks this is fun place? They go to my sister. And I make life so bad here they run away when it is possible. The evil ones who need to be killed, I send to them. Those above me reward me for training the purest radicals. What I only do is sift, and the irredeemable I send to the fire. Those who I think are possible to save, I break their youthful romance with hate and send them home, hating me. Is good plan, no? They do not see the men I cost them, only those who were already made with hearts full of death?

"I have questioned my options and there is much guilt for the actions taken by some of my graduates, but I save the saveable. Today, I think, Allah has shown me that he has guided me all along. Don't you think?"

John said with confusion, "You do still behead people. The conditions in the cells are inexcusable."

"John." Sherlock made eyes for him to stop antagonising the radical terrorist they were trying to win over to the idea of not killing them.

"Ahhh. You have no idea. The prisoners are treated like kings here. I allow very little beating and no raping at all. Not allowed. They are fed. I did not realise the water made them sick. An error. You know, I only behead one a day? That is getting me in trouble, you have no idea. They wanted me to kill them all! Why, yesterday alone, you realise they beheaded one hundred and twelve people in one fell order in the north. We should not talk of the conditions in Syria. Another thirty women were stoned? Just days ago.

"I am not normally a prison facility. Just in the last few months. The important ones that could be ransomed come to me. I have managed to get some home. I only proposed your friends be allowed to live, because I hoped ... someone would come. British, American, the Frenchmen who think I do not know they are here... even Russians. I cannot send out formal invitations. I was delighted you found us... but forgive me for sounding disappointed... Three people? It is too sad to imagine. Where is your army? Why are we not being blasted into paradise? The British Embassy in Baghdad... not even a lie to stay their lives. I can only do so much? I take so many chances and have my sister and her son to protect."

"We understand that you have been in a difficult position, Mahmoud. Every life you have saved is the important thing. Another in your position would have been a typical tyrant and we cannot always know the outcome of our actions," Sherlock said deferentially casting a warning look at John.

"So... how do we get you home? Has Mycrotch any actual friends? I must believe all that earlier was nothing but lies. The British government is so hard to deal with. They are not polite. They are not wild like Americans but not raging Bulls like Russians... the British are like Grandmothers, yes? They disapprove of you and you think they are old and weak then when you don't look they scorch your backside with boiling tea."

At that moment the Grandmother in question himself was escorted through the door. Out of breath and with a new set of scrapes adorning his brow. He was roughly shoved through the door and took in the scene of food and apparent peace with a look of outraged shock.

Mahmoud laughed and dismissed his soldiers with much hand waving and them telling him of the adventure of moving the Sak bab to his current location.

"So, Mycrotch Holmes, you tried to escape again? Yes, I know your name now. I want to offer you a nice meal and you try my patience again. How is that nice? You get your poor brother killed and where do you think you run? You are the stupid one, I have no doubt," Mahmoud chastised.

"Really, Mycrotch. Are you trying to screw up this rescue?" Sherlock asked with exaggerated disapproval.

Mycroft sighed. He rolled his eyes and stood waiting to see what was going on.

Greg stood up and ushered Mycroft forward. "You tried to run, in handcuffs?"

"It was not like I could pick them. They put chewing gum in the locks," Mycroft huffed.

Lestrade looked at the locks and agreed, "They really did."

It took several minutes to get them off. John stood and tried to clean Mycroft up a bit. He was eventually seated and Lestrade made him a plate of food and wiped his spoon off for Mycroft to use. "You need to eat. Mahmoud's sister is the most amazing cook. You have to try the little square green things. They are..."

"Well, Sherlock, lovely that you have become such first name pals with our executioners?" Mycroft said, ignoring Greg's attempts to get food in him.

Sherlock studied Mycroft and shook his head, "You knew all along, didn't you? Who he was?"

"Was being the operative word, yes. And finding him here, he would have used any avenue to further the goals of his masters. Thanks to your mouth, and your need to impress lower life forms, we now have probably lost that small victory," Mycroft stated in disgust.

"You knew me. I did not know you. The others in your party did not seem to know you... we did try. The Americans called you Mr. Peanut to a man. All this time, I believed Siger was dead. How could you?" Mahmoud asked.

Mycroft swallowed and rallied to his bland command voice. "He was in terrible shape. The damage was extensive. We...I wanted to assure that he did not return. We did lose track of you, I inferred by the cease of inquiry that you had, followed your siblings. This is not exactly  London, and records are effectively useless. If it is of any value to you, I will keep your secret. He would be devastated to learn what has become of you."

There was hurt in Mahmoud's face and anger like thunder. "You? Judge me? I can still have your head."

"Go ahead. But first do tell me, what became of the hidden prince and his Merlin? His faithful teacher?" Mycroft scolded defiantly.

"Bahhh... children's stories. He gives tourists camel rides into the desert for Bedouin experience in Jordan. He gave up on us. We lost our magic... we had no fire left... we lost our Djinn, you fool." Mahmoud shook with grief and anger and it was all focused straight at Mycroft.

"Am I to believe you have fooled these idiots into thinking you intend to help them? You and I both know it is a simpletons path of desperation. How's Tal Afar going for you lot?" Mycroft ask in a pleasant condescending voice.

John is sat with his arms crossed, watching this play out. "You know, Mycroft. You hate every plan so much, but I have not seen you offer anything but critical comments. Your plan was to go running off in the desert, with your hands locked to your back. Have you met the Scorpions here? Oh the snakes are even better. So, how about, for just once, you leave the stupid planning to the idiots?"

"Says the man who thinks a spider can be a cuddly friend and will keep his word?" Mycroft shot back.

John smiled and shook his head in amazement that he had come all this way on this annoying man's behalf.

"You are so very...British." Mahmoud said, eyes narrowed at Mycroft and using the word as an insult.

Mycroft smiled and gave him a slow blink and managed a look of aloof amusement as he replied, "Your great-grandfather, Auda Abu Tayeh, was a great man. His efforts provided for your extensive education. One hundred years ago he and his fellows took Aqaba. What a terrible shame, you are his legacy." Mycroft went in for the kill and made a gesture with his hand that none but their host quite understood. 

Mahmoud laughed.

Everyone else glared at Mycroft, but Mahmoud laughed. Then he crossed his arms and leaned forwards as he spoke slowly and with great pointedness, "And then your ancestors cheated us out of what we won. My Grandfather's friend went home to England and it killed him. The world spins and nothing, changes!"

Sherlock picked up a Cleche and waited for Mycroft to open his mouth to speak and quickly shoved the sweet, bread filled pastry into his brother's mouth. "Chew, Mycrotch, or I swear I will hold you down and force feed you until you cannot speak!"

Greg leaned over and put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder and said sweetly, " And I am helping him!"

 

 

 

  
~~~~~~~~~

Sak bab- son of a dog

  
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Aqaba

My inspiration for Mahmoud's great-grandfather  
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auda_Abu_Tayi


	46. Chapter 46

Things settled down after Mycroft ate. He at least listened as he ate, so he withdrew his hostility. Several ideas were tossed around but each had its own problems. Mahmoud tried out a few possible things and mostly Mycroft explained why it did not work. Though he did consent to sponsor Mahmoud, as well as his sister and nephew for British citizenship at once if they somehow managed to pull this idea off.

A main reoccurring issue was that Mahmoud was protecting so many of his supposed recruits. He had explained that most of them were not his churn and turn, actual voluntarily force. "We relied on foreign fighters and for some time now, they have been very scarce. People come from all over the globe to fight on all sides. I do not know why, but people come. They send their sons. Is crazy!"

  
He was commanding an army of children as well. He had two boys of only twelve. Seven who were only fourteen and a squad of sixteen year olds. They were essentially orphans and though his facility also trained the true fighters, he had to have guarantees that the youngest would not be imprisoned if he helped them and it led to the discovery of this hidden training facility.

One thing he had suggested was that he speed the many older fighters onward. If he sent them to the front, he could justify the reasonable move by Tal Afar needing reinforcements. The fact it was true worked in their favour. He could send the majority of those who would be suspicious north, and at that point he would be in charge of a small high school with guns. He was most concerned that if he did that, the balance would be tipped in ISIL's favour. Mycroft analysed the data and predicted outcomes. It was the basic plan but all were exhausted and Mahmoud's guarantees that the beheadings could be deferred if they were willing to do a bit of acting, seemed like as far as they could go for the night.

As they walked back to their dismal accommodations, the air had dropped temperature and it was actually cold. Mahmoud was being off slightly and he kept stopping and looking out into the desert surrounding the compound.

The direction of his gaze and his sharp gasp drew the others attention. They all waited to see what he had.

"There... do you see?" He remarked with delight. The guards spoke quickly in Arabic but seemed quite impressed and excited, though a little fearful.

In the distance there was a winking dancing fire of blue up on the beheading hill. It was gone quickly, but within moments it was answered by a green fire further away. Seconds later another blue one lit up and hung in the air.

Sherlock watched the display for several moments. "What is that?"

"They are Djinn, Sherlock Holmes. Your own kin walk in the desert. Each clan has their own fire. The blue are Marid ...and they are made of blue fire, they are the ones who grant wishes. I have never seen so many. I fear war has finally wakened them. Look there, green... that is the Jann. They lead lost ones to water or hide water from those they do not like and protect the armies of the righteous. Very good, Djinn. This is beyond my comprehension. There must be a dozen out there. It is good omen. I hope. "

The others watched with fascination. Sherlock, not believing in supernatural things, catalogued other possibilities to explain the apparent phantom lights. John watched with delighted skepticism. Mycroft seemed disturbed. Greg just watched in pure awe, listening to Mahmoud.

"We saw something like this in Helmand. But they were bright orange. Lost eight good men the next day," John said.

"Nasnas ... they are lower Djinn but dangerous. They and Ghouls are often drawn to tragic things." Mahmoud said with certainty.

When they got to their building, Mahmoud said casually, "You will be more comfortable tonight, I hope."

They all turned to look at him, but they thanked him and moved on. The cell was just as horrid as it had been earlier except there were now blankets. The others had made their beds and were sleeping. At least they would not be sleeping on the bare cement.

There were also two five gallon cans of water and paper cups. John was pleased by this turn of events. Mycroft lifted a blanket, sniffed it, made a face and placed his in a corner. Sherlock stood by the tiny slit of a window and watched the hills.

John laid their beds close together. Greg plopped his beside Mycroft, who frowned but didn't object. Mycroft turned on his side and gazed at Greg.

Greg remembered his gift and reached in his shirt and untangled the cords, handing one to Mycroft.

Mycroft turned it over in his hand, then asked, "You gave me a shell. Does it do something?"

"No. I made it. Into a necklace... when the others were planning this. Silly, I guess. But, at that time, I really thought I would never see you again. I don't know what I was thinking. Just, Saint James is the patron Saint of pilgrims and..."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Oh. Yes, of course. And we are here in the holy lands, and you brought me a talisman of protection. That... I am..." He sat up slightly and put it on. "Should they ask, say it is from home. Don't say it is good luck or anything. That is forbidden here. Witchcraft or some ridiculous thing. But, it is... thank you."

Lestrade lowered himself and wiggled about, trying to find a comfortable position. "God, this really is awful. "

"Lap of luxury tonight. You should try it without the cushy blanket and one of these charming iron bands around your neck. And hungry and thirsty and certain that the next day is going to be your last. This is indescribably rich." Mycroft said.

"Well, so you finally admitted our arrival has been an improvement."

"For momentary comfort, yes. I am beside myself with joy to see you, but by the same token, I have calculated the odds of our surviving and that significantly redacts the pleasure. Any one of the four of us has his escape in the high eighth percentile. All four of us, surviving... that is in a rather pitiful position of numerical space." Mycroft yawned out of the blue.

Greg yawned back and grinned. "They are contagious."

"Shouldn't you be bedded down next to your... fiancé?"

Lestrade grinned, "John is trying to steal him from me. But, I could move."

"No. You are already comfortable." Mycroft said a bit too fast.

It was quiet for a couple seconds then he admitted, "Jesus, I am really... really not. I cannot believe how much I miss pillows."

"My shoulder is available," Mycroft whispered.

Lestrade did not wait for a second invitation.

"So, explain who this guy is? I met Siger. Mad as a box of frogs."

Mycroft chuckled then tried to explain a little. "My brother joined the church against my parents wishes when he was fifteen. They were horrified. We are not even Catholic. We are C of E and rather the sort who go years without making Sunday appearances. Weddings, funerals and the occasional Easter. But he went to Oxford at fourteen, the traitor. Punts from the wrong end, you know? Disappeared into life at Campion Hall. He joined the order of Jesuits, taking his first vows as a novice, just before his sixteenth birthday. We were not pleased, to say the least. Took his next vows at seventeen. We were even less pleased.

"He was sent to Northern Ireland. He Became embroiled in the Troubles. Uncle used his influence to have him sent elsewhere. He spent time in Damascus and we all visited him for his ordination. He seemed quite happy. Beautiful city and so much history. At the time there was a huge influx of refugees from Iran and Iraq. He had studied theology. Was working on his Doctoral thesis by then. We had settled ourselves with his chosen path because he never wavered, never regretted his choice.

"From there he went to France, where at some point he took the forth vow of the Jesuits, something secret and involving obedience to the pope. God's Marines. He spent several months there under a vow of silence then he spent a year in Spain another in Mexico and then, he was sent to Baghdad. We thought nothing of it. I visited him from time to time. I was in the area and though it had to be highly clandestine, on my part, my job was becoming more burdened with responsibility--"

Sherlock blurted, "He means he was at the high point of his James Bond days. You and John made me watch movies about what my brother actually does and nobody could see the irony."

Mycroft did not acknowledge Sherlock, but continued. "In Baghdad, he seemed the happiest. He loved it here. He made friends and the few times he came home, it was all he spoke of. We did not realise how embedded he had become with the locals until we began hearing of a shadowy group who fought against a radical element. They were led, by a purported nephew of Faisal the first. The hidden king. I am sure you remember from history of the tragic events that took place in nineteen-fifty-eight?"

"No, I really don't," Lestrade said sleepily enjoying Mycroft's story.

"The young king and his entire family and even their servants were dragged from their palace and murdered. By a traitor in their own army. They dragged his body through the streets and displayed pieces of him. He was twenty three and went to Harrow with our father. So, they somehow connected through a man, a great-grandson of a Bedouin Sheik, Mahmoud. There was already a radical faction creating havoc in this world. It had only been brought to light into the forefront of western conscious when the planes hit the towers in New York. And with our own tragic seven-seven events of two-thousand-five."

"I remember that day. It was not too long after I met Sherlock." Greg remembered.

"Yes. Our brother was already here then. Had only been here a short time. We kept in regular contact and his information proved most useful. Perhaps the bombings in London played a part in his own secretive hobby. He was not Identified, of course, known only as the angel of death. I repeatedly warned him to leave. He would not. Fast forward to two-thousand-ten, Halloween. I cannot tell you of the many decisions I made, based on our sister's useful predictions, but coming to Baghdad was one of them. He and I argued. I left, so frustrated with him that I remarked that if they blew him to pieces, it was no more than he deserved. It was something I immediately regretted, because they did exactly that."

"Wow... that is an awful story. No wonder you don't get along."

"I got him to France. He would not have made it to London. He was at the precipice of death for weeks. When he recovered sufficiently to be moved, we brought him to London. He was given assignment on Farm Street and has never fully recovered. He is reclusive and his wounds give him an excuse to be antisocial. He studies the ancient texts and has regularly published considerable works on his esoteric subjects, but the brother I knew, has never returned."

"You were afraid if he came back he would die, so you let him think Mahmoud died too? Is that how it worked?" Lestrade asked.

"Essentially, yes. But I too believed he had died. I was not sure at first. The years change us. I knew of the man, but never met him personally."

Greg adjusted his head to look up at Mycroft. "Would it have changed anything if you had?"

Mycroft was quiet but eventually said softly, "I don't know. Go to sleep. I am unable to think any longer."

Near them, John and Sherlock talked. Lestrade did not mean to eavesdrop, but he was always rather good at it.

"You are unhappy that I attempted to adopt Rosie?"

"You are not prepared to be a father, Sherlock."

"Neither were you."

"True."

"I care. About her. She... grew on me whilst you were away."

John let out a sigh. "Now is the easy part. What do you tell her when she is five and wants her Mum... or twelve and begins menstruation? What do you say when she asks about sex? She is little and cute and easy to love now. It gets harder."

"I do realise. The truth... and we will have a rational uncomfortable conversation about that, like all the other parents."

"Why?"

"Because you are making a mistake and you will regret it."

"What if I do? I Still would not deserve her. Let your brother find her a good home with two loving parents."

"He already has. "

"Oh. And how does Greg feel about that?"

Greg answered, "it was my idea."

John rolled over, away from Sherlock. "Fine. Stupid to discuss it now, when we should be sleeping. Looks like Jim and Sebastian thought better of trying to break us out. Not that I blame them after seeing what they were up against. So we need to rest and figure out how we can do it ourselves."

Sherlock got back up and stood by the ventilation slit and watched the distant fires of the Djinn playing in the darkness under the glittering haze of stars.

~~~~~~

I Have company coming so the chapters will be a little sparse for the next few days. Thanks for all the kudos and comments.

  
https://www.ox.ac.uk/admissions/graduate/colleges/campion-hall?wssl=1

  
The life and death of Faisal  
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faisal_II_of_Iraq

Punts from the wrong end--- traditional rivalry between Oxford and Cambridge.  
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/uk/easternengland/721130/Oxford-and-Cambridge-Battle-of-the-Blues-for-pole-position.html


	47. Chapter 47

Lestrade awoke to the sound of the sunrise call to prayer. They all stood and faced the wall with the plate of poo drawing and waited until they heard the bowls of rice with tiny weird beans brought.

Sherlock sniffed his and suggested someone else would benefit from his portion more so than he. The other three, having eaten a few hours ago, were of a like mind and John distributed the food amongst the others that shared the cell.

They had been in such a go-fast mode that having absolutely nothing to do but note the rising temperature was frustrating. Sherlock had been doing well while there was a brother to save and puzzles to solve, but boredom and the loss of his antibiotics had his temperature surging again too and John had ended up in an exhausted sitting position to sleep, mostly on Sherlock's blanket, with his own thrown over them, as Sherlock had begun shivering sometime in the chilly night.

Sherlock asked if just removing the whole mess would be a better option, asJohn gently pressed at the bandages

"Actually, no. The bandages are fine. I knew what we were getting into, Sherlock. Jim had a surprising array of wound care options. I have layered the bandages... and they should be good for much longer than plain gauze due to that. There are antibacterial properties to these and a gel inside the outer layers, so, removing them for inferior gauze with no sterility would be much worse. But, I do need to get your pills back, because we were making headway and you were feeling much better and this is opening the door for trouble."

Mycroft squatted down next to them with a sigh. " You do know that you had no business coming at all. You should still be in hospital."

"And you would be in a shallow grave if I had done it that way... every moment could have been too late. I seemed to be the only one with the sense to feel that impending doom and we made it here with but hours to spare... so any criticism you wish to lob at me, is negated by the simple outcome. "

John frowned but shrugged and said, "He is right. I wanted wait and see what we were up against. He was hell bent to go at once. If he had listened to me, the whole reason we came would have been for nothing."

"I am ... grateful for you expediency and yet I still regret the necessity. Placing you in danger is far more disagreeable than..." Mycroft trailed off, and his eyes softened momentarily as the brothers continued the conversation in their traditional unspoken fashion.

Some resolve to the situation must have come about because Sherlock seemed amused suddenly and said, "Oh, while not a bad idea, Anthea will be furious and Mummy...."

Mycroft nodded, and finished Sherlock's sentence "...absolutely monstrous."

There was a flurry of movement out on the grounds. Lestrade had been watching from the small opening. His view was from near ground level as the cells were mostly cut down below the surface. It kept them cooler for longer and helped hide them from view. The occasional tyre passed too closely and kicked up a blast of choking sand and grit through the four inch wide slit.

Sherlock asked, "What is happening out there?"

"I am not sure. They seem to be loading things and driving around a lot. Is it always like this?" Greg stepped away and coughed as deep red grit billowed into their space.

Mycroft rose and shook his head, "No, there have only been drills and supply trucks beforehand. They appear to be bugging out as we discussed last night. His plan to send reinforcements must have been met with approval."

They watched the activity, as it was the only entertainment until the next call to prayer and the next. Two men played a game of checkers with pebbles and crosshatches scratched on the floor. The pebbles mostly looked alike so most of the time was spent in a whispered argument over which pebbles belonged to which player.

The activity died down and the whole camp seemed to be waiting. The light faded and the stars hung low. In the darkness, men gathered and stood in small clusters watching the dunes and the hill behind the complex. Suddenly there were voices.

"Now what are they doing?" Greg asked.

"I've no idea," Mycroft said, puzzled.

John volunteered from the floor, mostly as a joke. "Maybe they are watching for the Djinn."

Greg and Mycroft stood waiting and within a few moments there appeared lights in the distance and all the men outside began muttering and pointing.

Suddenly,many appeared,one after another and hung eerily, a supernatural army of violet, green, blue and red. When the red ones began coming to life, the men became frightened. They watched for a while but the excitement and wonder had abated and the spirit of the men standing near the edges of the compound became nervous.

One of them pulled out a rifle and took a shot at a Djinn.

The result of this shot was that the Djinn became larger and a plume of blue flame shot up twice as tall as the rest, as if they had angered it. People began backing away and then far up on the hill, the flaming phenomenon began exploding.

They winked out and there was nothing but dark.

The feet began running as if under attack. Out beyond the borders of the facility, there was only darkness. No more lights appeared.

John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg watched this play out, fascinated.

"Well... this is getting a bit creepy, isn't it?" Greg commented.

John asked softly, "You cannot blame that on imagination. What do you suppose is causing this?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I don't like not knowing."

Mycroft shook his head and rubbed his beard unconsciously with the tips of his fingers. "No idea...I have never put any credence to this sort of thing. But clearly, something is out there and it appears to not be best pleased with being shot at."

They waited a while longer, but clearly the show was over. They all bedded down for the night.

 

 

 


	48. Chapter 48

Cold.

Call to prayer.

Rice with flat bread.

Activity and frantic movement outside.

Heat.

Call to prayer.

Pebble checkers with petty argument.

John was the only one who got to leave. He did come back with Sherlock's antibiotics. They made Sherlock vomit. Greg held him and petted his head, so he could rest like John told Sherlock he needed to do. Mycroft paced or stared off into nothing.

Call to prayer.

John returns with news of his day.

Rice with green leaf vegetable matter delivered as well as water cans still hot from the boiling.

Watch the army of fire gather each night and try to figure out what is going on.

  
Sherlock's version of the daily schedule seemed to be something along the lines of ...

Stand up

Sniff the food

Describe it in relation to some corpse condition.

Boring

Complaining

Snuggle to Lestrade for petting

Stand up and annoy the guards by facing a slightly too westerly, southwest direction, as if accidentally.

Lie with wet cloth on forehead whilst in mind palace.

Bicker with brother.

Stand up facing slightly too far southward in the southwestern direction for the call to prayers.

Watch the door for John's return.

Complain

Bored

Eat a little under John's watchful eye.

Complain to John of boredom.

Watch the fire fairies.

Bed down near John for more petting.

It was a wonder he had any hair left.

  
They sat on the floor in a square party, talking low and sipping the watery evening tea they had been offered with the meagre meal of the third day of this routine.

Sherlock only ate a few bites, but John did not push after having been told how he spent the days.

"They are going north and they can't get past the checkpoints to the front as one big convoy so they were planning to head into Al Anbar, taking the scenic route and swinging back in an arc to the north. It will take longer but would be safer. But, they are debating rumours and have yet to act. They were set to begin leaving day before yesterday , two by twos. Then the thing the other night. Put them in high dungeon. They... what ever they are...come closer each night. " John conveyed, low and frankly weary.

"They are kinda pretty. Something to look forward to. Keeps my mind off dwelling on things..." Greg trailed off, showing that he was trying to be good natured and carry on but the situation was getting to him as well.

John rubbed at his shoulder as he spoke. The long days were taking their toll on him. "Well, the toughest of these so called soldiers are even unwilling to go the back way. They say it was bad to have shot a Djinn and that poor punter has nearly had his hands chopped off for angering the Djinn. Camp's divided now about if the flaming whatever are gathered against them or if they were good luck and shooting at them was the thing that turned the tide. Seems there have been some happenings they are attributing to displeasing the Djinn. "

"Superstitious lot for people who think Allah has their whole life planned." Greg stood and put his empty bowl back on the tray. It had not been great food, but he had come to accept the horror of the toilet situation and that resolve had made it imperative that he do his best to survive and protect the others if he could.

" Djinn are spoken of in the Quran. Maybe more than superstition alone. You know how there are no walls around this place? Well it seems that there are some, they have razor wire buried in concentric rings on the perimeter and they are on a sort of spring loaded system. So what happens is someone runs, not knowing," John eyed Mycroft and allowed the implications to speak for themselves, "...and they cause this shift in the sand here and they are basically shredded as this shit pops up. The other night every bit of it was sprung. Nothing... no animals and no people. Nothing Caught in the wire. Then last night... pigs... there were fighters killed by wild pigs in al-Rashad just a few months ago. Them showing up here, is odd. No pig tracks in or out and they somehow negotiated the now tangled nightmare of razor wire.

"They sent a patrol up the hill, to look for some evidence. They found nothing. Just camel tracks and those of serpents ...and divots from the blasts. That did not help. Mahmoud is even a bit ... well, he is stressing. His orders are to abandon this place and throw every last man to the fight. There are supposedly troops mustering in Baghdad and Tikrit and the Americans are actually coming according to their reports and they intend to save us or bomb us to Hell... no idea which will happen.

"Oh and the lights were not just on one side of the hill last night. They evidently circled most of the compound, and it drew the attention of people who are not feeling the joy of a secret hideout hiding in plain sight. You can guess what the orders are for the prisoners. We are too expensive to feed and they are pretty sure that if we are all dead, some suggested we be sacrificed to appease the angry fire folk, then they can escape. If they drag us along, they will be ..."

Sherlock began chuckling. "Oh...oh of course! That is the best news, ever."

John blinked and chewed his lip in confusion. " The troops?"

"Oh who cares about them. No... think! Who did we leave with the task of coming to our aid?" Sherlock said with excitement.

"Jim? And Seb?"

Sherlock grinned and nodded, "And who else? Daniel, did-you-set-fire-to-my-blank, himself. And not only that, but what do Camel tracks probably mean...brother mine for the boat race?"

"That somehow, our brother has made his Journey from the west and is now working with your firebug... to create chaos..."

"You think Daniel is responsible for the light show, then?" Greg asked quietly.

Sherlock tilted his head and frowned, "No. Of course it is mythical beings, who happened to show up right after we did, to create an environment of fear so some big wig westerners could be saved by a God we do not respect properly, and ...."

"Okay... I just was pretty stoked that one of the blue ones would give me three wishes. Now you have spoiled it, Sherlock!" Greg teased back as dry as the ground outside their window.

"What would you wish for? They are notorious tricksters. Give you wealth then cancer... long life and some condition that makes every second excruciating... hand you beauty and make you so cruel everyone hates you... there is always a paradox," Sherlock explained.

John looked at him and smirked, then eyes dancing said, "ahhh...so that's what you wished for..."

Sherlock blushed at John and whispered back,"maybe...just a little."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, looked at Greg and pretended to retch slightly.

 

 

  
~~~~~~~~~~~<  
Yes wild pigs are fighting ISIL...  
https://www.google.com/amp/www.newsweek.com/isis-fighters-iraq-killed-wild-boars-ambush-civilians-589816%3famp=1


	49. Chapter 49

The day began much the same as the others except the British foursome felt the tension of something about to happen. Sure enough, they were given a sort of yogurt (no flavours and a bit watery by London standards) and dates for breakfast which Sherlock ate as if it were Creme brûlée. The others were more or less revolted by the consistency and the tart off flavour.

"It is camel milk. You can tell by the slightly salty aftertaste. You would find this in gourmet shops only, back at home. My favourite." Sherlock said, finishing off John's as well.

"Agggghhhhccchh... that is disgusting. Help yourself."Lestrade said after one bite. "I may never get this out of my mouth. You would eat something vile and turn your nose up at Yorkshire Pudding!"

"Hey... they are beginning to pull out it looks like," John said standing on his toes to look out the window.

The ground vibrated with the movement. The procession continued for most of two hours. Once the dust cleared the compound looked lonely and abandoned. It was disconcerting to look out at the now empty space and be locked in a nearly underground prison, as if being left to die.

There was no call to prayer at noon. There were no guards in the hallways. The silence made everyone nervous and even the light outside seemed heavy and cast in hues of orange.

It was afternoon when finally sound was heard as footsteps approached their chambers.

Mahmoud entered their cell with two boys carrying rather dodgy looking rifles. Everyone stood respectfully.

"I am no longer Emir of this place. We are free, but at a steep price. All that remain are prisoners and those young ones loyal to me. My intelligence says there is an immediate air-strike impending and we have no place to run except into the desert. Every vehicle that could move has been taken... you see, a committee removed me from my position, saying it was my fault for the delayed action of reinforcements. Tal Afar is falling and they came up with a different plan. An hour ago, I received word that a car bomb detonated in Baghdad. Eleven killed and many more wounded. There will be more of this as the main force make their way north, to divert attention from their movement. They have left us to die by American air strike or by the anger of the desert spirits. Our only escape is to the west and there is Haboob coming." Mahmoud hung his head. "I am sorry. We stay and die or walk and the sand will kill us just as well. I tried to save us... but I am out of options."

Sherlock smiled as he said with conviction, "No you are not. We have transport. How many are left?"

Mahmoud looked sceptical. "Thirty-six prisoners and fifty-five others including my sister and my nephew." He turned to one of the boys and pulled him forward. "This is Abdullah."

The boy stepped forward at once, offering his hand to each with a formal, "How do you do." In passable English.

"It will be a tight squeeze but we should be okay... maybe." Sherlock thought, wondering if Moran had taken the stashed vehicles. "Some may have to walk, but we should have at least one lorry that is ten clicks away. Did they leave you anything?"

"One old jeep full of bullet holes, it would not start." Mahmoud said.

"The one we took to town? There is a trick to it." John asked.

"Very Good. We will take what we can, but we must hurry. Any moment they may attack this place. They will retaliate for the bombings."

"Mycroft, you and I will stay. We will get everyone out of here on foot. John, you go with, Mahmoud and Lestrade to get the lorry. You come as fast as you can, but do not come back here, head west and we will meet up on the road." Sherlock delegated quickly.

It took John several minutes to figure out the trick, which involved a screwdriver and some guesswork. Off they went to find a hidden wash of sand in a rolling but mostly featureless landscape. John had a good sense of direction and with only backtracking a few times they came upon the Hummer with bench seats in the back and the decrepit lorry. Both had sunk partially into the sand.

It took most of an hour to dig the Front end of the Hummer out and the drivers side of the lorry. They used the Hummer to pull start the lorry and somehow Greg ended up driving that, whilst John led the way in the Hummer and Mahmoud drove the little jeep.

It was not getting dark, but strangely it was getting darker. The sky had taken on a a deeper pink and orange cast than earlier. It was the forward run of fine powdered silt of the sandstorm Mahmoud had predicted.

They were less than two miles out of the compound when they came upon the slow moving and yet seemingly jovial people walking double file to the west. Many of the former prisoners were in bad shape already, most had no shoes and had tied rags and cardboard to their feet to protect them from the heat. They all carried something: water cans, bags of flour or open bags of rice, some had blankets strapped together and balanced high on their heads. They were a pitiful lot, but obviously Sherlock and Mycroft had effectively communicated the need to carry as much away as possible. Mahmoud's sister had a handcart with a stack of pots, which she pulled and her son pushed along noisily.

A medical handheld stretcher for wounded was stacked high with random supplies and took four of the older boys to lift. They had made excellent progress, considering, but they were still in grave danger. The space available on the vehicles was used to the inch and even the bonnet of the lorry was piled high. Supplies were strapped to the sides and people stood and sat on top of each other to fit everyone into the available transport. Some of the lads stepped onto the bumper and side rails hanging on and they had barely made it up to the speed of thirty miles per hour when the first jets could be heard in the distance and great plums of fire and smoke followed the sound of deep throaty percussion. They watched as the base and everything around it fell to attack.

One stray came far too close to the heavily laden caravan but other than getting covered with dirt and debris, and everyone's ears ringing a bit, they were unharmed. They headed west and slightly north into the barren sea of nothingness.

They had just made it to Buhayrat ath-Tharthar (Lake Tharthar) when Mahmoud directed them to go north. They soon found a scattering of long abandoned huts near the edge of the lake. He insisted they stop for the night.

"This is what is left of the training camp before the one we just left. The Americans took it in two-thousand and five. But they were warned and many escaped across the water. We must stop. Do you see?" He pointed to the northwest and a wall of what looked like smoke could be seen in the distance. "We will have to wait it out. When that hits, we will be safe from the Djinn and anyone else who wish to kill us."

"Mahmoud, about the Djinn--" Sherlock began.

"Later... there is little time." He began directing his boys to unload the vehicles and where to park them in relation to the largest remains of mud brick walls and huts. Others began wetting blankets to hang over openings. It was all a bit confusing.

Sherlock turned to John. "Ever had any experience with sandstorms"

"Yes. Let them do what he says. When that hits, it is going to be almost impossible to breathe and you won't be able to see me if I am standing this close to you. You will not have a spot on you not covered with grit and if we were caught out in it, it can blind you." John said watching it seem to inch closer.

The wind picked up ominously, as if agreeing with John.

Fitting the better part of one-hundred people into the makeshift shelters was uncomfortable and far too close for decency. It reminded Greg of the tube at rush hour but at least on the tube people had bathed recently and there was a specific timeline of a few minutes before you could escape. This was a whole different matter.

The wind picked up again and the boys seemed perfectly competent at quickly fixing the flaws of their situation. They crawled over people and reinforced things and even sat on the wet blankets to hold them in place. People seemed to gravitate towards the familiar faces and clusters of people chatted.  From somewhere, tiny oil lamps appeared and were lit in preparation.

Lestrade questioned the idea of open flames amongst all the people and blankets and tarp, but John assured him he would be thankful for the light very quickly.

Mahmoud's sister hung a sheer drape that afforded her a small amount of privacy from the eyes of unbelievers. The only woman in the group, it must be horrible in such a backward place where she had to stay covered from head to toe. Though, tonight it was a bit of an advantage and technically they all had covered everything but their eyes.

"It will be pitch black when it hits. Trust me, you will cling to the light."

They stood outside watching the wall seem to grow and then it was suddenly hissing and upon them. John waved for them to go in and Greg was fascinated by the pinkish orange turning deep autumn leaf orange then deep red and within ten heartbeats it was just night. He had never seen anything like that in person.

They took their seats and brushed the dust off a bit, and all the people had stopped their conversation to listen to the wind and the makeshift tent was barely illuminated by the tiny flames of the lamps.

To Greg, it sounded like static on the telly or the cheering crowd of a Football match, and his eyes widened as he realised he could almost hear voices.

"Do you hear that? Sounds like people whispering." Greg looked at the others, skin crawling just a bit.

Mahmoud nodded with solemnly, "The voices of the dead speak in the wind. They say they do... just a story. I hope not, for my brothers would say I have not washed behind my ears well enough and that I am too fat." He smiled shyly at his little joke.

John leaned over to Sherlock and said, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock looked back at John with confusion and saw his smile.

"Oh... right. Not Dead then?"

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "Here we go. I will go out there...if we have to rehash that again."

"Where will we go, once this is past? I need to contact my embassy. Get these people home." Mycroft interjected.

"You can go to Baghdad in a few days. Not a good time now. Too many of my men on the road. You will get kidnapped again. Right now, they all think we are dead. The blessings of this storm means our tracks will be gone as well. Best let things settle for a time. I think I still have friends out there... in Al Anbar. The boys will be safe and they are my first priority. " Mahmoud shifted and drew a small map on the dirt. "When the storm is over, we will wash in the lake, then we will head to the north around the lake. We will have to go to the road to cross at the bridge. Then we will head into the desert. We will walk when we can, we are too heavy for the tyres to take us much farther. We will only ride when we must and stay out of sight. It is not much of a plan...but..."

"We are alive. You saved us all. I do not know what you had to do for that to happen but, you have our deepest thanks,"Mycroft said formally.

Mahmoud looked at him and a tiny smile shown on his face. "I did it for your brother. Perhaps, if you wish, you could tell me stories of my Djinn, your Siger. I would like to speak of him, now that he is not a voice I would fear hearing out there."

Mycroft did tell small stories of childhood. He told silly funny antidotes of them before the younger ones were born. Even Sherlock listened with interest for they had long been a forbidden subject and he had no idea Mycroft remembered so many sentimental things.

The night howled and the dust found them, even in their shelter, but for the first time in many days, they felt hope, even sleeping on the hard ground with damp cloth over their faces and eyes stinging, it was a brilliant night and the stars shown in the eyes of the survivors, having taken a small rest from their place in the sky.

The wind became fierce and the blankets flapped and tried to escape their ties but the boys were vigilant and kept the bits together or quickly fixed the intermittent openings.

Lestrade fell asleep to the sound of Mycroft speaking, and that alone was one of his wishes granted.

 

 

 

 

 

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
If you are interested here is the real life reason I keep using the city of Tal Afar...  
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-41035675

Where they camped for the sandstorm  
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Tharthar_raid

The bombing in Baghdad today was not made up either.  
http://www.middleeasteye.net/news/heavy-clashes-last-pocket-fighters-near-tal-afar-936985749


	50. Chapter 50

Greg awoke to a huge sword at his throat and someone angrily babbling at him. The light was funny and he startled.

"Jesus Horacio Christ. Guys we have company and I have no idea what he is saying."

The man tilted his head and in perfect English replied, "And two more our fathers."

His eyes were bright blue.

John sprung at this moment and held a scalpel to the neck of the tall Arab while hanging on his back. "Listen to me, Lawrence of bloody Arabia, drop the giant sword or my tiny little knife is going to sever your carotid."

  
The man looked very confused, mostly ignoring John.  He asked Lestrade, "If you are here, alive, what are the odds at least one of my idiot brothers is also in your company? Please call off your hobbit before my friends shoot him!"

John did not seem to hear any part of that other than 'hobbit' and he somehow swung one of his short legs over the man's sword arm and put them off balance. With a stagger and a trip, down they went onto the writhing mass of human limbs that took up all the ground space. John was not letting go either.

At this point, Mycroft sat up bleary eyed and confused, took in the scene and sighed as if put upon. "Good Lord, brother mine, do make up your mind on you choice of ridiculous fancy dress you wear to the party. I would have worn my Lady Bracknell had I known it was a ... Doctor Watson...could you stop the faffing about and deflate your testosterone driven murder of my sibling. Eurus supposedly fixed you!"

John let go and Siger sat up and crawled forward a bit, just enough to reach out and yank Mycroft's dust-crusted cover off his face and sighed in relief. "I should have known, Hell would send you back. Good to see you, and where is the other one?"

"You are sitting on me, you idiot. Get off!" Sherlock complained.

Siger looked behind him and grinned. He pulled Sherlock into a hug and then let go almost immediately. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness and no offence, baby brother, but you absolutely reek! Are you sure you are alive? You smell like a corpse!"

"And you stink of Camel! What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

Siger sat back on his haunches and pulled his own scarf down. "Ran into some friends of yours. We all thought you were dead, you arseholes. We stumbled on this mess and thought it was IS. Your firebug buddy wanted to torch the lot of you... actually...". Siger got a funny look on his face and stood rushing out of the tent and screaming, "Daniel stop! It is them. They are alive! Put the kerosene down!"

Mahmoud stood and using the corner of his keffiyeh, he wiped his eyes. John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg followed Siger out into the dusty beige day. Mahmoud came as well. Siger was rushing about, speaking fast and giving orders. Camels snorted and grunted and people sat high upon them as the beasts pawed the ground at the frantic man waving his arms and yelling.

Mahmoud tried several times to get his attention and broke down more each time he was ignored. At last he found his voice and said in a harsh moan, "An Nar?"

Siger stopped in his tracks, his back stiffened and he slowly turned and looked at the tearful man who had spoken. In pure shock, he said without thought, "Habibi qamar? No. Impossible! How?" He shook his head and brought the back of his hand to his face as if to push away this impossible thought.

"Do you not recognise me, my Djinn? Have I grown so ugly? I would know you anywhere?" He stepped forward.

Siger backed away a step and shook his head, quickly covered his face again and held his keffiyeh in place before he turned his scars away. "It is you who will not...don't look at me, old friend...I am no longer..." Siger shook his head and his eyes lost their battle with his will and spilled liquid, leaving a dirty trail just under his eyes. "How can this be possible?"

"Please...I know of your scars. How can you think for a second they would matter to me?" Mahmoud laughed and cried at the same time. He stepped forward again as if to a skittish wild creature. "I waited for so long... I knew you would come back. I always believed. Every day... "

Their eyes met and both moved forward and embraced opening the flood of long held sorrow and the joy of its final end in their hearts. They stood sobbing and randomly they would kiss each other's cheeks in the eastern way, one side then the other, then sob more. It was touching at first but became so drawn out it became uncomfortable for the observers.

Sherlock turned to John and swept his hand toward the pair. He said, " See? That is more along the lines of my expectations. I got, punching, instead. For, future reference, I would have preferred, well, nothing that sappy and overly zealous but something less septum shattering..."

John pointed his finger at Sherlock and said darkly, "Shut up... now!"

"Would have been lovely.. fine. His best friend is nicer." Sherlock said with a pouty sniff.

"So... Siger Holmes I presume?" John asked, annoyed.

One of the men on a camel gave his a direction and it went to its knees then settled to the ground, tongue licking at the dusty air. The man dismounted and his head bobbed on his neck as if it were stiff, "Glad you didn't get blown to kingdom come. I did telllll you, your plan sucked!"

Greg laughed. "Jim? You stayed? How did you hook up with this lot?"

Moriarty gave a bashful smile and batted his eyelashes. "After you took off... playing kings of the Dufus clan... I took out my trusty mobile and rang up Siger? Like a 'normal person' and ask if he was not busy at the moment, could he come and save your sorry hides. We have been waiting for ages for him to get here... he brought a few friends...I love the scorpions here... taste a bit like lobster you know... delicious."

"Can't say I have tried them," Greg admitted with amusement.

"I was really sad when I thought you all went fireball on me. Though Daniel did cheer a bit... he can't really help it. Did you like our nightly shows. Daniel thought it would scare the bad guys away... it sort of worked. We caught six of them... and they seemed highly motivated to leave. I do hope they are enjoying their virgins. But then the place went all fire and brimstone and I think I got a bit sentimental about nobody coming for Christmas. Maybe it was just the sandstorm... but the little wife would have been very cross with me if I brought the Holmes boys home in a basket all jumbled...maybe a nice urn...even with a pretty bow, she would have ..."

Greg interrupted, "When I told Mycroft, that we were counting on you to rescue us...He fainted."

Jim looked up and grinned, "Naaaawww...that would be..."

"Keeled right over. It was really funny." Greg nodded and bumped Jim's shoulder. "Hey. And by the way, thanks. For sticking around and all. I had a weird feeling you would."

Jim shrugged and turned a bit as if checking out who was listening. "Don't let it get around. I actually find you all quite entertaining. Oh... did you mention the brother-in-law thing? Maybe we can get him to--"

"Yeah... sorry. He already knows."

"Darn. Disappointed. Oh well... we are related now... Fainting Ice Man... pretty much a given that we can repeat the performance at some point," Jim said with a very Irish shrug. "Want to meet my Camel? I am taking her home with me. Eurus loves pets."

 

~~~~~~~~~<

An nar (my otherworldly fire)

Habibi qamar ( my beloved moon)

 


	51. Chapter 51

There were many introductions made and Greg had no idea how he would remember them all. He had watched Mahmoud embrace people until he could no longer keep track and he had been introduced to some sort of Prince that he could only pick out because he, Mahmoud and Siger were inseparable once reunited.

There was so much activity in the newly expanded camp that he just felt mostly lost and in the way. There were proper tents pitched all over. Some of the tents were striped, others made of dark hair, and some were of more modern material. A whole city was blooming before his eyes.

People were bathing and camels were being watered whilst elsewhere a motor pool was set up and repairs were taking place. The latrines were shored up and afforded some privacy, but the queue was always five people deep and Greg was not desperate. Food was being cooked here and there and Moran had somehow driven up with three live goats and a monstrous dead pig. Of course, most of the camp had been horrified at that, but the non-Muslim members of the party had been quite delighted. Provided it was roasted in a separate fire, it was agreed that Sebastian could cook it.

John had seen to a few people who had blisters and other minor injuries. Sherlock had disappeared and John asked Greg to go find him. Greg had searched around, asking and finally discovered him sitting in the shade of a wall, sipping a bottle of water and staring across the hazy water. He looked exhausted.

"Hiding out from the people or the work?" Greg asked flopping down uninvited next to him. He sniffed and made a face. Flys attacked Sherlock mercilessly.

"Hiding out from John. And that is exactly why." Sherlock put his hand to his abdomen. "It hurts, Greg. And there is nothing he can do. He was sniffing me. I know he knows."

"Oh, no. You need to let him take a look." Greg started to get up and Sherlock's hand dashed out and pulled him back down.

Sherlock smiled tired and content then said, "In a bit. I want you to sit here, with me for a few minutes. Please?"

"Okay?" Greg questioned. He did his best to wave at the flys, because Sherlock just ignored them.

"We knew this was going to happen. We knew it before I survived the helicopter and before we flew here. When we left the hospital, we knew what it meant. My idiot brother fell on me. That seems to have sped things along a tad. But it does not matter. I did it. I got here in time and that is all that matters. Mycroft is safe now. But, I keep thinking of Young Watson. I want you to promise me that if John does not come to his senses and Mycroft is unwilling, that no matter what, you will proceed with the adoption. I need you... to watch out for her." Sherlock sipped his water and Greg realised he was shaking.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. You think you are dying, don't you? He won't let you. Come on, I am getting you to John, right-"

"I can't. I can't get up. I can't. Please... I want a few minutes. A few minutes will not matter and I need to be a tiny bit sappy before... another row begins. He is going to be really... but, it is what it is. Anyway, if Mycroft does not work out... court Molly. She will make a fantastic Mum. But, lie. Do not try it like I did. She is your backup plan now. Once you get to know her, I promise she will grow on you. Ignore the clothing, she really is quite intelligent and lovely. Also, make sure you keep Mrs. Hudson in little Bee's life regularly. They adore each other."

"I don't want you talking like this. You are scaring me, Sherlock."

"My brother predicted that all four of us making it back was not in the cards. He is most often right. With the conditions, it is easy to infer which of us ... won't. I am not giving up. Don't look at me like that. Just in case... that's all. I have never said things I should to people so, you won the mawkish lotto by being the one to find me. I knew you would."

"Lucky me?"

"I have sneered at affection, because I have known little until the last few years. But, my brother and Mahmoud. Everything is clear to me right this moment. Those two? That is faith. You know?" Sherlock looked at him and leaned his head on Greg's shoulder. "Apologies for the way I smell. Pet my head while I talk. I love that."

Greg obliged and even in the hot dusty air, Sherlock's skin was hotter. "Sherlock. Let me get John. You can tell me, whatever while he..."

"No. Don't you see what a fool I have been? Seven years, Mahmoud had no hope at all, and he lost everyone and everything. He had every right to be angry. Mycroft... I know why he did it... and maybe he was right to do it, but it was a very unkind thing. They both thought the other was dead. But, when they came back to each other... there was no anger. That is real, Greg. That is real."

"You don't think they...I mean, that they... You know..."

Sherlock frowned. "He is a Priest."

"Yeah, but... I saw two people who were devastatingly in love.. sooo... you never know...I mean..." Greg trailed off at the look of disappointed disapproval.

"Sex is not love. Siger is revered here. He has some very unpopular opinions on sex. He seems to have been born in the dark ages and landed here. No... I know he is... not tempted by such things."

"When you love someone... I want you? It is normal to feel that."

  
"I love John as much as that and we never... I wanted to of course, but it was not to be. Changes nothing. But, I don't think he really understands. Sometimes I think he does. When he got in the Hummer with me, I was so sure. But now I know. He will be really bad for a while but he will be fine in the end. If it were him, I would be like Siger... a recluse at best and most likely dead in six months. John will be fine. You will help him."

"That isn't true Sherlock. He only stayed away because of fear that Eurus..."

"I wanted that to be true too, Greg. I did. But, when I came back, he was not under her influence. I wanted him to cry for Joy. He hit me and did not speak to me until I pulled him from a fire. He is my friend, and I have excused his anger but, I haven't time to debate how he feels or doesn't. He had his chance to say things and All I see in his eyes, most of the time, is anger. Thank you for letting me see the jealousy. Strange how it makes me happy that he at least was something besides furious all the time. I want to say what I have to say to you. It is important to me. Please, just listen?"

"Alright. Then I am going to get him, no matter what you say. He sent me to find you." Greg fanned flys again.

Sherlock nodded. "You think I never noticed. But, I did. Every time I call. You drop everything and come. You told me once that I was real. I just want you to know, that I know it was also to see my brother... but John did not get in that Humvee alone. You got in too. And when I returned, the only person who treated me exactly like Mahmoud did my brother, was you. You called me a bastard and you did not care about the how or why... only that I was there. I will always remember that, and know that I was loved. You are real too, Gregory Hershel Lestrade. That is all."

"Just one question. How long have you known my name?" Greg looked down at him with fondness.

"I read your file after Baskerville. I thought you were on Mycroft's payroll. Your atrocious bank records proved, you were not," Sherlock admitted.

"Okay, Sunshine, I love you too, I don't need to be asked about Rosie... already promised. And Enough putting off the inevitable. I am getting John now." Greg kissed Sherlock's hot forehead and stood.

"Tell young Watson, that Sherlock bloody Holmes loves her... I know it will be a challenge but try to tell her something nice about me. She won't remember her Mum or me at all. Please tell him, not to hate me. Tell him I really was mad for him? At some appropriate juncture... not now of course?" Sherlock instructed.

Lestrade looked down and shook his head. "You tell them yourself. Stay here."

Sherlock chuckled and raised his water as a toast as if to say he really had no plans to move.

As soon as he was out of sight, Greg ran.

Out of breath he huffed as soon as he saw John, "You need to come?"

"Tell him to come here. I almost have a clinic going on and..." John trailed off.

"He can't get up and thinks he is dying. He told me... nice things. Come now."

John picked up his ruck and got two boys to follow with the stretcher. Of course he was all the way on the other side of camp out beyond the camels. Lestrade trotted around the wall and found Sherlock slumped over, eyes closed. John turned the corner and cursed.

"Sherlock? He is burning. Sherlock?"

They carried him through the mass of people and propped him in the shade under the two blankets John was calling his "clinic" and John ordered one boy to bring cold water from the lake. John pulled his clothing aside and cut into the bandages. He gagged and so did Greg. "What the hell?"

Lestrade said quietly. "You and Siger fell on him."

"And as usual... He never tells me anything important, Never. This did not just happen. Not all of it. God damned him and his bloody..." John went to his bag, tears in his eyes and riffled through his things.

Greg tried to say it kindly but he felt it needed to be said, "Please, just don't be angry with him?"

John looked up and shook his head, "I told him not to come. And that... right there... is exactly...why."

Greg squatted next to him and said very low, "He is in love with you. Always has been. If you love him back, you tell him that you are not angry. Lie. But say it."

John opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Lestrades face stopped him. "I don't have to lie."

"Yeah? Well, he just spent what he thinks might be his last words, comparing what he saw today with Siger and Mahmoud to how you and he were reunited. So maybe, I am not who needs to know that? Up to you." Greg did not wait for a response. "Now, how do I help?"

John stood up and Lestrade did too. The doctor looked up and said softly, "Go get that bloody Priest."

Greg frowned. "It isn't his fault and Sherlock isn't Catholic."

"I know, but I am going to need all the help I can get. Any port in a storm." John shrugged as he carried the few items he had into the shade.

 


	52. Chapter 52

Greg searched. He was eventually directed to a tent in the middle of the mess, but as he tried to enter two men stood in his way. He had not expected that. He said he needed, Father Holmes and they had no idea. He tried to pronounce the "Angel of Death" in Arabic but just sounded like an idiot and they looked more confused. "Mile Ike lie moot?" Finally he said, "The Djinn?" While holding his hand above his head indicating the tall one. One of them ducked his head in and spoke. They stepped aside.

He ducked under the flap. It was refreshingly cool inside. A young boy with a mist bottle was diligently spraying the walls of the tent and another stirred the air with a handheld fan. There was carpet and wind-up LED lights illuminated the interior. It was not a huge tent, but large enough that eleven men sat in a small circle on cushions and there was still room to walk around them. It was obviously up-scale from the surrounding tents.

Mycroft stood, "Gregory? Is there something you need?"

He had been so focused on finding Siger that he had not planned out what he was going to say. It hit him that John had not sent for Mycroft. He only asked for a Priest. He was not Catholic, but when a Doctor gags and asks for a priest, maybe John had not said it outright, but the only thing it could mean was, "Last Rights."

Siger stood and folded his hands. "Has someone been injured? One of the Americans? I did not realise there were any Catholics here other than Myself and Jim? I will get my things, at once."

"Dr. Watson sent me. It is Sherlock. I think... and so did he." He glanced at Mycroft helplessly. "He may be dying. Your brother wandered a ways to the edge of camp. I found him. He couldn't get up. I ran back to John. We took the stretcher and by the time we got back to him, he was unconscious. He is burning up with fever. John sent me for you... and I just realised why you and not...Mycroft."

Greg was not a person who cried, but all Sherlock had said to him took that moment to sink in and in his mind, all he could see was Sherlock's face as he stood in the helicopter above Sherrinford and they both knew it was the end. He looked at Mycroft who was coming towards him, shock on his face, and Greg lost his British copper stoicism and he moaned in one single moment of shining misery as he really felt the weight of living through losing Sherlock again.

"He ...he... oh God."

Mycroft was there, clean and shaved, and Siger ducked under a section of material and returned with an oblong wooden box tucked under his arm.

Lestrade had himself back under control quickly and apologised.

"No need. Just take me to my brother," Siger said with much more kindness than Greg expected. "The smell. I should have recognised an infected wound when I smelled one."

The three of them made their way to the two blanket roof and a scavenged dented oil drum with half a door John was using as an instrument table.

It was hot, dusty and just a step above exposed to the weather. Someone had brought some mud bricks and poles to make a sort of table for John to work on. A blanket folded on top provided the only comfort and the structure sagged a little in one corner, but Sherlock was beyond caring.

Sherlock was wrapped in wet cloth everywhere except near the wound site and and John had a surgical mask and gloves as well as a pale blue paper cap on his head. The wound was draped with a tiny damp tent, leaving one side open for John to work. John leaned over Sherlock and was obviously debriding his wounds.

He stood up and walked to the edge of his shade, hands held up, so as not to touch anything. "I need salt to make sterile saline, honey if you can find it and see if any of these Bedouin carry Ghaaf Bark extract for infection or Neem oil for these bloody insects. We are getting eaten alive by fleas. He is covered in maggots. You can come in if you want to see. One at a time, but do not touch anything."

Mycroft nodded for Siger to go. "Anything else?"

John frowned. "Not unless you can close me in with a proper tent. Every person that strolls by kicks up crap, losing battle. Trying not to introduce more debris and bacteria when the air is carrying so much soil and who knows what. Also, there are scorpions so I need him to be up off the ground.

Word spread quickly in the camp. Even though John had barely become acquainted with a few of the boy-soldiers from the prison during his afternoons of treating body lice, stings and infected fingers, those who knew him and many more who did not, came.

Some things showed up, set in front of his area, a small jar of honey and a paper bag of salt. Other things were undertaken as he worked. A whole tent was pieced together as he worked and when he finished his initial repacking of the wounds, Sherlock was moved onto a lower shelf of mud bricks built up to one side with a carpet slung over it as a cushion.

By sunset, there were oil lamps and sheer cloth draped over Sherlock's bed to protect him from the insects.

Siger did not leave his side and rosary in hand, he prayed for his brother and helped John and Greg change the damp cloths keeping Sherlock cooler and gently washed Sherlock without being asked, including his hair.

Greg was shocked at the tenderness with which Siger treated his brother considering their first meeting. He watched him minister to Sherlock, each action, well thought out and gracefully practiced. He seemed peaceful and full of that Holmes brilliance set to the perfection of these menial tasks.

"You are rather good at this," Greg ventured when they were alone.

Siger only responded with a slight bow of his head as he washed Sherlock's legs.

Lestrade pressed on, "It is just, when we met, I got the idea that, you would not even visit him in hospital and wanted nothing to do with him and yet, you just got your best friend back, and you are here, instead. Giving sponge baths?"

Siger took a deep breath, "I am very angry with you. I charged you with a task. An important task, and you failed me. Did you not understand the part about keeping him out of this? I am doing God's work at this time. Please refrain from contaminating it with your curiosity. Just because you feel the need to bugger him, and he allows it, gives you no standing with me."

Greg took a deep breath and, still faithfully petting Sherlock's damp clean curls, he asked, "Can you keep a secret?"

Siger looked up for a moment and smouldering disdained threatened to bubble into wrath. "I am a Priest. We keep all the secrets. You have none worth confessing, other than you let him come here to die and I cannot forgive you that. Not yet."

"I am not. Buggering him. Never have. He has kissed me two times, beyond what Mahmoud kissed you today. That is all. I would not mind, it... someday if the time is right but we... never have. Just want you to know that."

At that, Siger straightened his back and tilted his head, confused. "You are engaged to marry him. Are you not?"

"Sex is not love, is it? You love a guy who has had to behead people and none of that stuff matters. Right?"

Siger blinked. "Oh. Well, In that case, I have misjudged you in that particular area. So it is. However, you still let him ... do this to himself. By coming here. I told you I would be here."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "Have you met up with this one in the last ten years or so? You don't stop him from doing a thing he wants to do. That is the family motto or something isn't it? Should have an Ox or a Mule on your Holmes coat of arms or something. Stubborn as hell, the lot of you!"

Siger relented with a slight upturn to his lips, "No denying that."

"Besides, you would not have been here in time. Mycroft would be dead... either way you would not have got to him in time. He would have been murdered the very day we arrived and he was refusing all liquids. So even if he had not been ... he estimated he had hours before he would have gone to sleep with no intention of waking. John had to threaten him just to get a fizzy drink into him. He saved him by coming and Maybe.. just maybe, he saved you too. Mahmoud was going to kill Mycroft. But, he recognised Sherlock as you reborn or something. Not sure what he was saying... but he Said Sherlock has your eyes. That part, I got. And it is true. So, in my book, him being stubborn kept your best friend from murdering your brother. Maybe just me, but I would have found that a hard truth to live with?"

"You have a large repository of opinions. None of which I am in need of at this time? You trade the life of one brother for the other? Mahmoud also saved every one of you. Try to remember that when you refer to him. " Siger stated flat and deadly. He returned to his work as if dismissing Greg.

John returned then and looked at Greg questioning. John was a master at picking up on tension in a room and blatantly ignoring it.

  
John took half an hour and bathed himself, now that he had a private area to do so. The tent offered four tiny chambers off the main room, two on either side. John returned wearing an Arab robe and held his arms out for inspection.

Greg took advantage of the latest addition, a kerosene stove to boil things. He used the water from sterilising that would have been discarded to wash Sherlock's very rank clothes for when he felt better, he hung them up to dry overnight.

John insisted that he wash next if he intended to be near Sherlock. He felt better but had washed his own clothes too because they were too stiff and nasty to put back on. He was also given a thwab to wear and looked like a local. It was too short and he had nothing to wear under it, so he felt ridiculous but it was good to get out of the stuff he had worn straight on for more than a week.

He would have killed for a shower, but that seemed a distant waste and this warmed water alone felt like a luxury.

John giggled and warned him not to stand against the light. Showing him the results. It left very little to the imagination.

People brought them food. Moran brought a bit of charred pork which they ate voraciously. The main part would smoke until the next day but he had cut some of it in strips and they had cooked much faster. There was camel milk, and the repulsive yogurt that Sherlock loved, as well as a hearty goat stew.

Someone generously brought a bowl of camel urine, meaning for him to wash the wound in it. While John had heard of using urine, which was technically sterile for emergencies, he had no intention of pouring the horrid stuff on his best friend. Siger had assured him it was perfectly effective and that it was well documented that there was indeed something in the urine of camels that fought the microbial load of the area. John discretely poured it out and returned the bowl with many thanks.

Jim sat with Siger for a while and John and Greg returned from updating Mycroft to find them both, head bowed and saying a prayer in Latin together.

John hid his smirk at the idea of Moriarty interceding with God on Sherlock's behalf after Sherlock had called him an "imaginary sky fairy" but he also knew that, knowing what he did about Jim these days, that he was either completely sincere or God had the Consulting Criminal on speed dial. "Can you fix it for me, Jim" prayed for the healing of a man he made fake die. That alone had to be some kind of miracle.

Siger eventually returned to the fancy cool tent to rest but said he would return in a few hours. Sherlock moaned and kicked a leg out from time to time, but the night grew still as the two men watched over Sherlock.

With no preamble, John spoke, "What else did he say?"

Lestrade startled, he had used the mud bricks to make himself a seat at the top of Sherlock's bed and had leaned forward, resting his eyes. " Sorry, who?"

"Sherlock, what else did he say. Out there. You said 'nice things' and then told me he talked about when he came back. What else did he say?" John asked, reclined on a carpet and propped up on his ruck.

"Why do you want to know that?"

John tapped his finger on the carpet and traced the patterns, keeping his eyes down. "You do realise, all this. Probably for nothing. I know you do. Detective, hmmm? I was not asking anything meant to be private. Just, he knew. That is probably why he crawled off. Some people do that. May be the last words of Sherlock Holmes."

Greg grumbled, "Thanks for the pep talk, doctor, but I am not giving up just yet."

  
"Should have been... me. He said them to." John's face scrunched up and tears flashed for a second but he blinked and sniffed and looked away out the fluttering opening of the tent.

Greg sighed and rubbed his temples. He had nearly been asleep. "Yeah. Should have been, John. He would have probably liked that. But, you were busy being cross with him. And some of it will make you more cross and he just didn't have enough fight left in him to ... take it. I don't mind telling you. Not at all. But... whatever in you that comes out as angry... you have to let it go for now. Deal?"

John gave a sarcastic snort then quietly added, "Yeah. Okay."

"I wish we had some whisky or a cool beer. We don't normally do this bit completely sober."

That put John more at ease and he agreed with a chuckle, then frowned. "Didn't work so well last time."

"Well...I will get this one out of the way. See how it goes from there. If he dies, and you do not snap out of your stupidity and Mycroft won't keep her, he made me promise I'd still adopt Rosie-posie. Said yes, just so you know."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Chances of that?"

"I been approved since before I met him. How's that for a shock? Been wanting them my whole life. Wife couldn't and insisted on a newborn. Still waiting. So, not as out of the realm of doable as you might've thought," Lestrade added.

"Wow. It is true then. You and he actually were going to do this. Thought it was .. "

"He is terrified of losing her. How do you not see that? I don't know how you could even think of giving her up."

"I was in Sherrinford? My life was over. You get that? Nothing was going to fix that and I did the best I could on the spot. " John said defensively.

"Yeah. But, you're out now. Don't see you changing your mind. Remember in the chapel that day. You asked me why he and I were getting hitched. She is a big one of them. He and I are not madly in love... but I do love him. And he loves me back, no matter what you believe about his capacity to care. He loves me and he told me that again, to make sure I knew it was real. He needs her and he and I work. It may not be all passionate but it is what we are allowed to have. Because you and bloody Mycroft never will pull your heads out of you arses long enough to notice that we exist." Lestrade said equality defensive.

"What has Mycroft.. oh my God. Are you in love with. That is why you went with us on the suicide plan of his. It wasn't about him was it? Oh Jesus. You and he are settling... aren't you? " John sat forward with amused superiority.

"Yeah. So what. There's worse things, John. We could be two guys who sit around and pine until it is too bloody late." Lestrade smiled smug and unable to contain his competitive side when feeling insulted.

John looked like Greg had slapped him. "Yeah. You got me there. Good one mate? What else did he say?"

Greg sighed and thought. "Told me to ask you not to hate him. Told me he loves you as much as Mahmoud and Siger love, but he knew you didn't understand because all he sees in your eyes now is... anger. Said he knew this when he checked out of the hospital. But he saved you and Mycroft and that made it all worth it. Sort of thanked me for caring about him because he evidently had not had much that he felt was real in his life. Gave me instructions to ask out Molly. Thinks she and I would make a lovely couple and she would be good for his little Bee. Told me to explain all this at some appropriate time... but not now." Greg shrugged at his last bit.

"It's fine. Doesn't matter. It is all too late." John said and sort of threw himself back on his pack, resigned.

"Course it does. He is still breathing"

John leaned up on an elbow. "Even in hospital he has a sixty percent chance. Patient like this, all the modern stuff. I will still lose one out of every three. Out here. Greg, he has hours.. two days at most. He is cooking. His immune system is going into overdrive. Trying to fight but it starts working against him. He needs fluid too. But at some point the white cells will begin to clog capillaries. His oxygen will decrease. And if he does not go into shock, his organs will begin to shut down. Has not passed any urine. And he drank water just before he lost consciousness. So... I am sorry but ...the movies lie. Heroes die of boring microbes all the time. Ours is going to... those are the facts."

Lestrade smiled. "Funny you didn't notice. This is not the land of facts. This is the Holy land... the land of magic and the land of the Djinn. His brother is damned sure one of them and I have a tiny suspicion that this one ... is too?"

John shook his head and tried to lie back comfortably, "Wake me when his breathing gets fast. I want to say my goodbyes."

Lestrade stared at John horrified for a long time. Then put his head down by Sherlock and petted his head and spoke low into his ear, "Don't listen to him. I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

 

 

 

 

 


	53. Chapter 53

John had taken over watching Sherlock a couple hours before dawn. Greg had taken John's bed and the rug on the soft sand was surprisingly comfortable. He awoke to ...

"Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Lestrade knew what that meant and he sqinched his eyes closed and forced down his gorge. He opened his eyes and John and Mycroft stood to one side as Father Holmes, in his full cassock and sash glory, anointed Sherlock's head with oil.

Lestrade watched them without moving. He had seen this before but it was much worse knowing it was Sherlock.

The ceremony ended and Mycroft stepped forward and put his hand on his brother's shoulder, "Thank you Sigerson, that was quite lovely."

The tallest looked at his feet and said with a sniff, "I should still do it in Latin. Sherlock would have preferred Latin."

"He would have just been proud that it was You. He will probably brag about you, use your association to his advantage be sent to hell anyway and return to life annoyed people crying over him have inconvenienced him." Mycroft said attempting his sarcastic dick-witted humour.

John added, "Ta...Can I get back to it then?"

Sherlock was still breathing and about that time, Greg realised what he was looking at from this perspective. He had a spectacular view of Sherlock's naked arse and it had a rubber tube in it with some sort of contraption and an inverted pickle jar filled with a milky liquid. He had material tented over him, but this end was open and his legs were slightly bent and spread so not only was his gentleman sausage on display to Greg, but indeed the full English complete with Marmite smears!

Lestrade looked at the somber faces debating if Sherlock Holmes would prefer they talk to the "imaginary sky fairy" on his behalf In English or a dead language only poncy gits understood and all Greg knew was he would have preferred either way with out a tube up his bum in full view of his family. Or for them to have done none of it at all. Greg wondered if Mycroft set this up for revenge because Sherlock had found the thought of this happening to his brother so hilarious.

"I hate to say it, but I just have to. He would prefer, and stop talking about him like he is already dead, it not take place with a tube up his bum and his bits dangling while you try to weasel him into the palace of the imaginary sky fairy!" Lestrade said then added, "God I wish I had my mobile. He would want to kill me if I put this up on.. " That was the end of coherence out of Greg for several minutes. He laughed until he was sick and couldn't stop.

Mycroft looked uncomfortable, John put upon. Strangely the person who should have been insulted by his indecorous mood, turned and raised his hand to hide a snicker. When he grinned at Lestrade as he put his magic potions back in the box, Greg laughed again.

Now Mycroft was angry. His eyes narrowed at Greg then he very specifically turned his head as if he did not exist.

"Good lord, did you roofie him, Doctor Watson? ". Mycroft said as Greg continued to hiss and hold his aching stomach. "I cannot imagine what you could find funny in this situation, Detective Inspector, but I assure you, I do not find it remotely humorous."

Mycroft exited in a snit.

Siger threw white robes over his head to hide his cassock and just as he left, he looked up at Lestrade and winked, before restoring noble snobbery to his features.

John shook his head. "Wow. I see what you love about Mycroft. He has such.. yeah... drawing a blank."

When Greg stopped laughing he told John to come sit by him. John hesitated but did as he ask. Greg used his flat hand to showcase as he said, "See things from my perspective?"

John frowned then looked toward the indicated features of interest and he started chuckling, "Oh. That's okay. Should have seen it from mine... when I tried it the first time and he had a blow out. That robe thing will never be the same."

They both laughed like two school boys.

"How is he?"

John sighed and blinked his eyes and rocked his head. "A bit worse, but not sliding as fast as I would have expected... which in this place is at least progress, I suppose. Look sorry I was that way last night. I get like that. I don't want you to think I am not trying. I swear to you, I am doing everything I can. "

"That is very good to hear. Thank you."

"I love him too. More than I can explain. I have been telling him that all morning. Never know. Maybe." John smiled softly.

Mahmoud came rushing in about that time and said excitedly, "Come to the lake. Come now!"

John sprung to action, grabbing his pack. "Drowning. Bring the stretcher, Greg!"

Greg stood and lifted it and manoeuvred it out of the tent and headed to the lake. There was a terrible commotion and people yelling a "lalala" sound. They pushed through the crowd and found a floating raft with a palette on it and a huge sodden bubble gum pink parachute being dragged onto the shore.

John looked at Greg in confusion. About that time Siger strolled up and handed Lestrade a note asking, "Does Sherlock know someone named... W ? With 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division? Americans? Because they just dropped that from a very large plane... and it was pink for some reason. And addressed to my brother?"

Greg read out loud :

**_Dear Sherlock._ **

**_Sorry this is a day late. You have no idea what the boys from the eighty-second like! Please live, because you owe me dinner and I always collect eventually._ **

**_Say hello to the lucky DI for me and tell Doctor Watson I have a special therapeutic program just for him!_ **

**_Love and well, you know_ **

**_W_ **

People were opening the boxes and about that time someone said in English with obvious disappointment. "Bags of water. No chocolate. No paper and crayons!"

John pushed forward and looked in the crate. He bent over and began to sob. He made the sign of the cross and continued sobbing to the sky. Greg stepped onto the raft, still partially in the water and touched his shoulder. "John? You alright?"

John bubbled laughter and tears, "God yes. Bags of water? She has sent IVs and medical supplies enough to outfit a whole bloody hospital. Plasters and Antibiotics and Jesus. Everything is sealed and bloody clean. Iodine and alcohol ... "

Greg smiled. "That is good, right? Who is W?That stuff will help him, you think?"

John nodded enthusiastically. "Scary mad Irene Adler. The Woman! Hell, I want to buy her damned dinner right this minute! Greg, he just went from zero to sixty! "

John grabbed a few items and rushed back to the tent, leaving the others to coordinate moving all the supplies.

Greg returned to find Sherlock missing a bum tube and now sporting an IV in each arm. John's tongue darted out as he was preparing a shot of antibiotics. He hummed off key and grinned to himself.

"So the prayer sort of worked?" Greg asked.

John sniffed his nose and smiled as he jabbed Sherlock's hip and withdrew the needle. "Irene Adler. In my fight for the man I adore, that is my competition. Not you!"

"Oh really. Well, let's get him well first, so we have something to squabble over, then let him decide? "

"What I want to know is how she even knew? I always thought she was the devils sister, now we have proof!" John said.

"Who cares. Never look a gift Sky Fairy in the mouth." Greg took his seat by Sherlock's head and began stroking.


	54. Chapter 54

The day had cleared a little and things seemed less orange-beige. Sherlock's fever was down and John was in a great mood. Every victory made him giddy and when Sherlock peed the bed, you would have thought he had just solved the Ripper crimes and cleaned the fridge at Baker Street on the same day.

Sherlock was brilliant and exceptional and the most clever of all the urine makers in the galaxy. He really was because while John was celebrating and changing his bed, Sherlock cut loose again and got John square in the face. He gleefully mopped his face and chastised Sherlock about how water sports were not in his normal range of turn ons, but that if he would just open his eyes, John might be willing to explore his boundaries.

Lestrade decided John had always been round the twist and wondered how he had ever been fooled by the man's old man clothes.

"You know, I have been thinking. You don't suppose that he was watching for that plane do you?" Greg asked, suddenly realising what he had seen yesterday. "Because I don't think he crawled off to die. I think he was waiting on these supplies. Look here in the note? Sorry I am a day late!"

John nodded. "Probably. He does that sometimes. Come here and look at this?"

Greg came around. "Yuck. Is that good?" He asked looking at Sherlock's festering wounds.

"One hell of a lot better than yesterday day. Smell that?" John asked?

Greg sniffed. "Not really."

"Exactly. I was furious that he had maggots in the wound, but they did us the service of removing all the necrotic tissue. They were wild and not medically sterile, which is not good. And they were not monitored, which is why he was hurting so badly, they had eaten into the viable tissue, but... now that civilisation has been drop shipped to us, they did us a favour in the long run. I think we may have a decent chance here. " John said as he taped fresh pads of pristine white to the wounds.

Seb Moran showed up with Jim and Daniel about that time. They were all delighted to hear of Sherlock's improved condition. They were invited to a pig roast and frankly, it sounded delightful.

One of the original 'sand babies' was left to watch over Sherlock and they followed them to the edge of camp where the Americans and British prisoners were all gathered and celebrating. It seems Tal Afar was now in the hands of the Iraqi government again and the Daesh were not wiped out, but on the run.

A familiar wooden crate had been transformed into a food laden feast. Nothing was wasted here and bubblegum pink garments were the new fashion choice for many of the Bedouin who did not eat the barbecue pig but joined the celebrations.

Greg stayed just long enough to eat, but after catching Mycroft's eye twice and seeing disdain there, he left early and returned to Sherlock.

Just as he walked in the tent, he noticed something partially buried in the sand. He bent over and picked it up. It was a Queens Scallop on a broken leather cord. He swallowed the hurt away and shoved it into his pocket.

He did not have long to be sad. Just as he was telling the sandbaby to go enjoy the party, Sherlock opened his eyes. Greg grinned brightly and took his hand. "There you are, Sunshine. You sure know how to scare me?"

Sherlock smiled lazy and sweet. "Irene must have come through after all. Thought she forgot about me."

"Yeah? When did you plan this out with her?"

"At Jim's. there were actually four drops. Don't tell John. Let him think I am amazing again?" Sherlock said looking around.

"He would be an idiot to think anything else." Greg kissed his forehead and turned his attention to the sandbaby. "Get Dr. Watson and his brothers. Tell them he is awake and hungry! Bring him some of the nasty yogurt."

"How did you know that I am hungry?"

"I am a detective. I know stuff".

Sherlock made a face and wiggled his hips slightly. He looked under the covers and frowned. "What the Hell have you people been up to down there? For God's sake!"

Lestrade handed Sherlock Irene's note and Shrugged. "She was a bit late. Don't ask what was in the pickle jar, but I knew you had to be hungry. And just for the sake of disclosure, you did retaliate already."

"Did I?"

Greg grinned and explained why John had to change his clothes and have a second bath.

"Served him right," Sherlock said with a very red face and a wink.

"Oh. And I think you are Catholic now? Tell your brother, he was right and you would have preferred extreme unction in Latin. That will mess with their heads a bit?" Greg conspired.

"I heard you. Greg. You did not lose faith in me," Sherlock whispered.

"Yeah. Make him work for it. When you break up with me. Make him never take you for granted again." Greg smiled as the others began filing into the tent to see the miracle.

 

 


	55. Chapter 55

Things moved quickly behind the scenes as Sherlock recovered. An army envoy was dispatched and the American and British prisoners were all escorted to Baghdad. Mycroft went with them, barely looking at Greg as he said his goodbyes.

Moran and his crew stayed because Jim chose to stay rather than be beholding to Mycroft for his own exodus.

Sherlock was much better but far too weak for traveling just yet and within the camp, there were talks going on that Greg only heard whispers of but was not in the privileged class to be in any way included. Greg was fine with that, because he knew he had no business in this country and nearly equal interest in its future doings. Siger, however, was dead in the middle and the fancy tent with the Hashemite Prince, was guarded and active well into every night.

Siger spent every available moment he could with Sherlock but they often spoke in such a mishmash of languages that Greg used that time to get some air. He had gotten closer to some of the locals and that meant fishing. They may be barely able to communicate with words, but fishing made fast friends with gestures and smiles.

In the evenings, when those who could were gathered for the discussion of these big plans, Sherlock related what he and Siger discussed. The basic idea was that they were intending to invade Syria and fight the Daesh whilst protecting the province of Al Anbar. Siger was somehow a key to this plan, in that he could draw people with his fervent desire for peace and understanding of both the Christian mind and that of the texts revered by Islam.

Somehow, Daniel had become a key player as well. John was somewhat overwhelmed with customers and kept his nose well out of the political arena. Those who came to him, he helped. No questions and no payments were required.

The camp indeed expanded and there were other royal lines who had heard of the return of the Malak Al-Maut ·and the Teacher and the Hidden Prince... the rumour also told of a man who could harness the Afrit with the surety of Solomon. These four were referred to as the Wise Men and people came in droves. Within days the shoreline of the lake had burgeoned into a six mile long sea of Bedouin tents. The lake patrol who had been dispatched to disperse this mass, were soon turned into allies and provided security.

Greg heard stories of these people having been forced to settle and being sucked into the modern world. They wanted a new way. One in which their old ways could mingle with new.

Greg had no idea how or when they were going home, he was just content to be in this place with Sherlock getting stronger and something magical taking place.

He adapted as he always had and sampled roasted scorpion with Jim and took them fresh caught fish. Sherlock and John were in the throes of a flirty revisit to an earlier time of their relationship but the tenuous facade of Sherlock and Greg had become an almost truth in this land of hardship and fire. Greg mourned that he and Mycroft were apparently a flash in time that was now finished with little more than a dirty look.

He had come all this way and faced so much terror that the fizzled idea of something more with a man like Mycroft felt like a revelation of his own stupidity.

"I told you he would do this. He let you in when he thought he was going to die anyway. Now he has to live with the fact he has no idea what to do and so he has made up some slight in his mind and is clinging to it like mustard to an expensive tie." Sherlock was scratching the last of his beloved vile yogurt and dried fruit concoction out of a plastic bowl.

Greg was downheartedly worrying at, but not consuming much soup, which was very thick and rather bland. "I don't know, Sherlock. One minute he was sleeping with my head on his shoulder and the next he was in that big tent with the important people and maybe he just woke up and realised that I am never going to fit into his world."

"Think what you like but you know how obsessed he is with me and there are only six cameras pointing at Baker Street. Now, help me up. John said I could go out today and I want to see something besides the inside of this goat hair hovel."

Greg looked around. "You know the day it was built around you, it felt like an embarrassment of riches. Thought you were going to die under two sorry blankets and covered in fleas. I could have cried at the kindness we were afforded. Just don't call it that? Appreciate the fact that people with practically nothing gave more than they had for your comfort?"

"Dually chastised. However, you have had the honour of leaving it from time to time?" Sherlock agreed but was still itching to get outside.

"Just a bunch of tents, really. Like the outside of this one times a few thousand." Greg grinned as he teased Sherlock.

"Perhaps so. But I am also incredibly interested in the pink parachute clothing that is all the rage according to Jim."

Greg laughed, and helped Sherlock to his feet. "My kingdom for a camera phone. That is worth seeing."

"Speaking of Kings. I wish to pay my respects to Prince Muhammad Thar bin Ghazi bin Faisal."

"I hate the names here. Do they all have to run on like that?"

"Not that different to our own. Gregory Hershel Lestrade son of Richard son of Hershel son of James son of Marius."

"Hey.. how do you know ... never mind. Come on Sunshine son of nutters brother of arseholes."

"I may have to change my business letterheads. I actually like that." Sherlock squinted as the bright sun kissed his face for the first time in days.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was announced before the prince and from the extra words, and the laughter, he evidently actually decided to do just that.

 

 


	56. Chapter 56

Moriarty now owned twenty four camels. Exactly how this occurred was anyone's guess but he had named them. He had his own tent and it was larger than Prince Faisal's, though not anywhere near the quality. He was a rising power in the community and Greg found it hilarious. Wherever this man went, he was still James Moriarty.

Moran spent his time out in the desert hunting things. Once the British and Americans left there were not enough people to eat the wild pigs he was hunting but he brought them back and smoked them in his pit anyway for the five sand babies, the pilot, now recovered, and anyone who was hungry. Greg was a bit sick of pork, but it was better than taking the food out of people's mouths who had so little.

Truth be told, the meat did not go to waste but it was simply distributed on the sly. He was doing them a favour by killing the pigs. Since the Christian population had been run off, the wild pigs population had exploded and they were ruining what few crops were attempted. Not only that, but they had quickly lost their fear of man and were attacking people. This area was sparsely populated but, the pigs were smart creatures and retreated to the desert and were an ecosystem destroying nightmare. So, Moran roamed the desert early in the morning and the pig was euphemistically called "the goat of the afrit" because technically if it was eaten unknowingly then it was only required they ask forgiveness.

Plans began to be firm and the tent city began to shrink. Within days the activity turned from social to preparation. Jim gave all but three white camels and a beautiful black calf to Mahmoud and his little entourage of waifs who had made themselves so useful to everyone. He also promised them his tent and everything therein.

"We are going home boys." He said, "This party is over." He had evidently arranged a ride for the unusual camels all the way to Ireland. One of Mahmoud's boys was going to be his camel manager.

Nothing shocked Greg any longer.

That was until the day before they intended to leave, a helicopter landed kicking up a dusty mess and frightening two young camels who tore through the main thoroughfare and upset a tent.

The dust settled and emerging from the shiny military conveyance ,a pale tan umbrella followed by a man in a nearly white seersucker suit, with a Panama hat and mirrored blue sunglasses. Mycroft Holmes looked like a postcard of British imperialism and the epitome of refusing to go native. Greg, still in his military drab and paratroopers boots that he had been wearing for what seemed to be eons, heart fluttered then sunk.

Mycroft seemed to not notice the people waiting for him and was terribly interested in the display of tents that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions.

Sherlock leaned in, "Don't think for one second that this display is not all for you. Bet he has enough cologne on to kill every biting bug in the camp."

Finally he seemed to note their presence and he grinned and gave a tiny wave as he opened his brolly and popped the shading canopy over his head. He strolled up to them and said in genuine amazement, "Well, this is most impressive. We heard rumours but I simply did not expect this. The press has gotten wind of this... "Army of Hope" as they have called it. I hope he knows what he is doing. I fear watching his literal crucifixion on some Syrian News service, but we have always known of the many supposed prophecy, and despite my best efforts, here we are. They say they have found the fourth? Is that the case?"

Sherlock nodded. "Daniel. He is staying."

"Of course. Well. Then it is in his hands. I see you appear to have managed to keep yourself alive for a few days," he said finally turning his attention to Lestrade, "I can no doubt attribute that outcome to your vigilant attention for which I am most grateful. Are you prepared to return to civilisation? I booked us into a lovely spa in Aqaba for the night. Our private plane will fly us to London in the morning. I thought a restful night in an actual bed would be welcome," he said with supercilious authority.

"Up to Sherlock. I am just along for the ride."

"Give is a few hours. We have items to return and thanks to pay." Sherlock said, somewhat downhearted.

John strolled up at this point and blurted, "What are you doing back here?"

Mycroft turned and said, "I never, in fact, left so therefore I am not back. I have sent traumatised investors to their various homes, met with and received the thanks and apology from the Potus. And though delayed, managed to attend to my original objective of two young females and their children. They are currently on their way back to their grateful families. Oh and of course there was the funeral."

"Funeral? Whose?" Greg asked before thinking.

"Mine. It needed cancelled. Shame too, Anthea had done a magnificent job. She was most cross. State funerals are rather difficult to call off, it seems. She is betting that she can still appropriate it to some smaller employee, alluding to his family he was more important than he let on. Actually less expensive than a full stop once the cogs are turning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh god, and I suppose you plan to attend your own funeral!"

Mycroft tilted his head back and studied his brother's face. "Well, of course. You did!"

John glared at Sherlock. "You what?"

"Who cares? Not like you bothered to show up." Sherlock said snotty and disdainful.

John fumed but said nothing.

"Yeah? Well I went. And now I feel like a right idiot too. Spent three days before and a month after arguing about it with the wife." Greg took a deep breath and blew it out. "Did I see you there?"

Sherlock looked skyward and said as if it should have been obvious., "Pew behind you, three down on your left."

Greg thought for a second. "Tall lady, green dress, kept blowing her nose and hitting people with her hat as she cried over her poor little nephew."

With a nod and a pop of his P, Sherlock said, "YeP."

Greg looked at Sherlock as if he intended to be angry, but could not hold it and laughed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Doctor Watson? How long will you require to be ready to go? My brother and I can return the tent to its owners, anything else that I may do?"

Greg told Jim they would be going with Mycroft and wanted to make sure he was certain of his own transport. He then made his way to his fishing friends wishing them each long lives and prosperous fishing. Sherlock had written it down for him phonetically.

The tent was gone and the clinic was bare when he got back. They took a few moments to say goodbye to Siger as well.

As a joke, he spit on his thumb and made the sign of the cross on Greg's forehead and Greg kissed his ring like he was a pope and everyone thought they were horrible.

Siger and Sherlock embraced. "Tell Eurus that I do as she has asked. I have saved the soul of a brave man and together we shall lay Damascus at her feet. Tell her we have a heading of 270 and the wind is at 90."

"Please do not get nailed to a cross." Sherlock returned.

Siger smiled and kissed Sherlock's head. "Please don't fall off any buildings or mess with any more of Dr. Watson's wives?"

"Come for Christmas. Mycroft will hate that."

"I'll try."

The smell of noxious smoke interrupted the goodbyes and Siger rolled his eyes and roared, "DANIEL? Are you setting The Prince's tent on fire?"

The was a moments pause and some stomping sounds. A very contrite voice said, "Maybe? Just a little?"

Siger pulled the drape back and more smoke billowed into the main room.

"Forgive me Father for I did not know it would smell so bad?"

"It is made of hair! What did you expect it to smell like?"

"Going to miss that." Greg said with a smirk.

"Oh, you think this one is any better? Just wait til you live with him." John warned.

  
Then they were on the Helicopter and rose up slowly waving at the upturned faces of friends they would never see again.

They flew over the lake, and their city of tents grew indeterminate from the shore and then disappeared in the haze.

 

 

 

 

 


	57. Chapter 57

The trip to Aqaba was bittersweet in that whilst they were eager to get home, somehow they were leaving something important behind. It was such a harsh, brutal, primitive world and yet it was also beautiful and wondrous and a life changing perspective. It felt like that was home now and London was this dream state that did not really exist. There was a fear that going back meant going to sleep again and being pampered back into unconscious distance from life.

Life back home was so easy on a day to day basis that it was like being lulled into not appreciating anything and became a kind of living death. Every want at your fingertips and needs assumed just felt wrong now. Lestrade felt sick knowing that he had made friends here that he could not even speak to properly but who would have always happily shared every single thing they owned with him, just for the asking and that if they had need, he could return the gesture and they would have accepted it without compunction.

He had lived a life in a place where if he was homeless, most of the people he knew would have passed him by on the streets. He looked at Sherlock and had new respect for the fact he was unaffected by social norms and walked among the homeless with an open hand. Greg wondered how much he spent every month secretly seeing to people who others passed by as if they did not exist.

Sherlock was obviously quite well off as he had splashed out on clothing for Greg without a blink. The small times Greg had seen him pass a fifty to this one or that one, could not even be the tip of the iceberg. They kept in contact with him by phone. Someone was picking up that bill. Had to be one Consulting Detective which also explained why he lived in Baker Street and not in a Palace next to his brother.

"So, what is this prophecy stuff?" John asked, taking Greg away from his inner revelations.

Mycroft sighted and adjusted his posture, "How long do you have? My siblings and I have been debating this subject for years. It would take nearly five for me to explain all the history and connections to your satisfaction. By that time, the events will have played out or not."

"Can you give me the basics? You are not trying to say he is the Messiah... or the Antichrist are you?"

"No. Not at all."

"Oh... that is good then," John said in mock relief.

"He is the precursor to those things and the deceiver is among us now," Mycroft explained.

Both John and Greg's eyes grew wide and looked with horror at Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, "For God's sake... not me!"

Two heads transferred their immediate surety to the elder Holmes and he threw his head back and laughed at them. Sherlock snickered into his hand. With a great sigh and head shake, Mycroft said, "And yet, the two of you have volunteered to fly half way around the world to save me and are currently trapped in a flying contraption at my very mercy and it took mere seconds to make you assume I am the Devil born to earth. I am not sure if I should be insulted or flattered."

John popped off, " Please be flattered? And when you have me for eternity, do remember that I was very, very...flattering? And saved you and your brother with my doctorly stuff?"

"What he means, you idiots, is that there is always a self proclaimed false messiah on earth. One is defeated and another rises. It is a cycle if you know history. And yet they are incredibly hard to recognise until after the fact.," Sherlock explained to John and Greg.

"But, Siger, studying all that esoteric stuff you told me about. He thinks he knows? Is that the deal?" Greg inferred.

"He does know. He has known for some time." Mycroft tapped his finger on the handle of his umbrella looking a bit sad.

"Not The Donald then?" John asked then added, "What? There was a meme on Facebook. But they also had one of that barmy woman with a lizard face so, may not be the most reliable source."

"Oh, the barmy woman is most definitely one of the antecedent deceivers, thank God there was a miracle there. She hated Vlad, and has funded a great deal of the misery you have seen in the last few days. Whether from stupidity or desire or simply greed, only history will know, but I will say, that the Americans dodged a bullet with her. Remains to be seen if they have made a martyr, a monster or a magician," Mycroft said playfully.

"So, what is he doing then?" John asked softly.

"All roads lead to Damascus. He is going to try to save her. At least for our generation. You see there are many books of wisdom and most have prophecy concerning that city. In the Quran it is from were The Messiah will return. In biblical texts it will be laid to rubble, unfit to ever be again habited. That is the herald that the trumpets will sound and the four horsemen released. War, which our mother has long proclaimed was me."

"She is not wrong there." Sherlock said as if it were fact.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Thank you, Famine. It was meant as a Joke, once. But you see, there are other names for these positions in other texts. And it is perhaps not so far fetched."

"We are on the side of the Angels, John. But we are not them. We are simply able to see a bit more clearly. Siger, however... he is a complete dick, no question, but there has always been..." Sherlock trailed off unable to complete the thoughts.

Mycroft picked up in his place, "Our brother, has always been a bit..other. I do not know how to describe it without sounding mad, he has killed people. And yet he is, for want of another word, righteousness personified. He is God's own wrath and we have always been a bit terrified of him. I am even more so now, knowing all this time he and Eurus have been communicating. But, you saw. All those people, come to him... as if his purpose was spoken on the wind. There is a prophecy which relates that four wise men shall come from the east and one will be a King of Mercy, one a teacher of angels, one a great mind of peace from the north, and one who shall be a lion of redemption. There are hints of this..."Mycroft paused and swallowed "...in the book of Daniel."

"Oh... god... that... bit weird for sure." John furrowed his brows and tried to remember anything like that being talked of in his childhood.

"If they are successful in their wiping Satan's army, shall we call it, from the earth, then we believe there will be peace in Jordan, Syria, Iraq and Israel for fifty-seven years. That will be beyond our time and what the next generation shall make of their own deceivers shall be beyond our purview. So, yes, I can prove our brother's conclusions of his fate in this world with long boringly tedious connections and still you could simply argue that magic prophecy is not real!"

"Which I have, on numerous occasions," Sherlock interjected.

"What happens if they fail?" Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled, and then lifted his brow and wrinkled his forehead comically. "Then you had better keep your shiny soul, shiny."

"So, you are saying that this is a real thing? How does Eurus fit in? And Sherlock?" Greg glanced at everyone almost sure they were pulling his leg.

"If the world is saved again, she... will be a new Oracle with which her predictive abilities will warn future generations. Just as others have done in the past. It is not magic, nor done staring at little mirrors or bowls of water. It is mastering all the tiny threads at once. Sherlock does it to a degree as well, as do I."

"And you had her locked away? Why does that really piss me off?" John asked rhetorically.

Mycroft looked down and uncomfortable. "There were other factors, of course."

Greg chewed his lip. "I don't think she did the thing with that boy. Doesn't make sense. I think we should hunt up that file at some point."

Sherlock looked at him, interested. "What makes you say that?"

Greg started to tell them, Eurus told him, but decided against it for two reasons, the first being it would impress Mycroft but also, if Eurus had told them and been dismissed, if they knew it came from her, they would never bother to look.

"Just something not right. Copper instinct. Kid was older than her. Was she especially big for her age? How did she do it?" Greg asked.

"She probably convinced him it was a wishing well. She did not have to physically overpower him," Mycroft stated easily as if this was obvious.

"Yeah? Know much about kids? Ever tried to get one to put on their Jimjams... or eat a Brussels sprout? Well is a long way down. Dark. Got slime and crawly things. How did he get down there? On his own? Never met a kid who wasn't afraid of the dark at that age. Also, never occurred to them to look in a well? Does not add up, Mycroft," Greg said carefully.

He had not meant to put a damper on things but the rest of the trip was spent pointing out film Locations and the views were spectacular.

The place Mycroft had chosen was more resort than hotel. The pool was painful blue and inviting but looked plastic and fake compared to the blue azure water of the Tharthar.

Hot water felt decadent, but it was lonely having a room all to himself. He did take advantage of it and yet plugged the drain and automatically washed his clothing in the wastewater without thinking.

He sniffed the towelling dressing gown and it smelled like chemicals, not fancy flowers or tropical breezes. He found a small duffle of clothing in his size. It contained trackie bottoms and denim jeans and polo style shirts. He riffled through it and wished he had brought the thawb with him.

He looked out the window at the fake lights and cultivated palm trees and considered what it would be like to just throw away all of this and join Siger. He did not have anything actually stopping him and wouldn't it be something to be part of all that? He may not understand it all, but his bet was, most of those riding beside him come tomorrow, didn't either.

 


	58. Chapter 58

Greg perused the hotel offerings and his eyes landed on one thing. There was a bar. Oh that sounded like heaven on earth. He grabbed his room key. Hoped he could charge to the room, because his wallet probably no longer existed and his throat ached for something cold and Haram!

He stepped into the quiet bar area and smiled. John had beaten him to the punch. He went to the counter and ordered a neat double and a cold beer and handed them his key.

He sat down at the little table and John grinned and said, "You look like a petunia. Let's get so drunk these shirts are pretty."

"Yeah, electric green with blue stripes is not a very John Watson sort of... they look like golf clothes!"

"Yeah. Ugly golf clothes belonging to ninety year old men." John agreed.

"So... what do you think of all that? On the ride here? Bit weird, isn't it?"

"Pfffttt... come on. Only a Holmes would decide that they are mentioned in the bible. Nutters. The lot of them. I mean Siger has an excuse... all wrapped up in it. But let's be real. Sherlock thinks god is made up, so how come he would buy this stuff. Pull the other one?"

Greg felt a bit let down by John's dismissal of it as a joke, but realistically he had to be right. "I miss it. I mean this is great, but that bed is big enough for five people and I feel really..."

"Lucky to be washed?" John guessed.

"Wasteful. I washed my clothes with my bath water. Everything smells funny and all I can think of is going back." Lestrade drank several gulps of beer.

John leaned forward making sure nobody was listening, "Get that out of your head. It is just reverse culture shock. It is normal. You had an adventure and now it is over and you don't have to look over your shoulder every second of the day and your senses have to readjust. Give it a couple days. Do not make a stupid decision based on how you feel right now. Take it from me. When I got back home... from Afghanistan... I was a tweeker... crawling skin and pure panic to get back to hell. London was like landing on another planet in somebody else's life."

"Well, I can say, I missed this." He held up his glass and clicked it with John. "And real toilets...I almost cried."

"To all things Haram!" John agreed.

Sherlock wandered in. His shirt was the colour of the bridesmaids dresses and his jeans were acid washed. John and Greg laughed for ten minutes.

"Shut up. Where is the booze?" He said flopping down as if he were personally more offended than the others.

"We are curious how much booze it will take for these shirts to be pretty?" Greg asked.

"No idea. How much is there?" Sherlock asked waving his arm for service.

They were well on their way to fashion appreciation by the time Mycroft found them. He was casual in long mid-calf shorts (or short trousers)and a teal Hawaiian flowering shirt.

"Have you lost your mind? Where did these, and I loosely use the term, "clothes" come from, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sat down and pulled the shirt out as if it offended his skin. "Lady Smallwood's new A... Abigail....Annoya....Andrea ... I don't remember."

"Agatha? Pops her gum?" Greg asked.

"Yes... that one. Agonisera!" He grinned with mischief. "May I buy anyone a round?"

John giggled into his glass, "Got news for ya, mate. You are buying all the rounds. We are just posers without wallets."

"She is the one who saddled me with paratroopers boots all this time!" Greg complained.

Sherlock chimed in, "After this obvious wardrobe malfunction, you should be glad they were not pointy toed cowboy boots with little snake heads stuck on them like ships figureheads."

"I need new booze." John shuddered and looked around.

"When we get home, I am going through John's closet, no worse, Molly's, for the ugliest jumper known to mankind. Cutting the tags out of it and having Campbell sew one of those 'handmade by' patches in it and giving it to her as a gift knitted by John's deceased grandmother! Then I'm going to invite her to a lovely dinner so she has to wear it, in public," Sherlock assured them.

"Jesus, you are the anti-Christ! I am married to the anti-Christ. Donovan will rent a plane...fly over the NSY with letters that say ' I TOLD YOU SO!" Greg imagined out loud.

"I am in favour of your devious idea, brother mine!" Mycroft said at once.

"Not married yet, you twat!" John added. Then smiled like he had a secret.

They were cabbages in golfer regalia by the time they made it to their rooms.

They were hungover crumpled misery in golfer regalia by the time they boarded the Cessna Citation III. It was the same plane that had once made an aborted attempt to banish Sherlock from merry olde England and he had attempted to overdose on. Not wanting to relive that fond memory, they did the British thing and began drinking at once.

Six hours later what poured out of the plane was a far cry from Anthea's expectations or experiences. They were all delirious with obnoxious inebriated friendship that mostly manifest itself with fart jokes and shady puns.

Disgusted, she dropped them all off at Mycroft's house and let them sort themselves.

The dawn brought pain as well as the realisation that all four of them had slept in a dog pile in Mycroft's bed in various bits and bobs of Mycroft's personal wardrobe, a third of which, would now have to be sent out for cleaning. There were four rooms of the house that were a magnificent tip and approximately four thousand pounds worth of scotch had evaporated.

The builders tea required to wash down the paracetamol was as black as coffee until the milk was added and even then it was still hazardous waste.

 

 

 

 


	59. Chapter 59

They had sorted themselves a bit when the butler arrived and after assurances that no robbers or vandals had been turned loose on the house, he began setting the house to rights. He had just begun that, with excessive noise, when another person banged noisily through the kitchen door with a tote on one shoulder and a blond wispy-headed princess on the other hip.

"Oh, you are back? How wonderful, Misters Holmes. She has missed you both. I have been taking her home with me. She seemed upset staying here. Kept looking for you. I just popped in for a few of her clothes. Mrs. H has a play day scheduled and I am running so late," She said a whirlwind of chatter.

Sherlock was on his feet first and delightedly cooing pet names as he lifted his Bee into his arms and up in the air before crushing her in a rather emotional hug, turning away from all in the room as if needing a few seconds of privacy. He had thought he would never see her again, and he was like a bloodhound, sniffing her and kissing her to the point she got frustrated to see who else was in the room. She socked him on the cheek as if to say, enough, who are your friends.

Her legs kicked with enthusiasm as she reached for John with a demanding "DA!" Repeated until the object of her desire tentatively took her in his arms and remarked about how big she was.

She nodded gravelly as if she had performed this feat for his benefit. She pointed at Mycroft and pronounced "My Nono!"

Mycroft smiled indulgently and said, "Not this morning little one. I have no tie to subjugate to your teething trouble. Would you like a snuggle?"

She submitted to his attention as if she was pleased. She then was passed to Greg who she had no name for but was familiar with. He offered her a biscuit and he was now her favourite new person. He did not say it, but he could not help but wonder if in the near future he might call her his daughter.

The nanny was back and she had a disposable wipe in her hand at once to deal with the biscuit goo. "I can ring Mrs. H if you will be needing her? You just back and all? Sure she would understand."

All agreed that it would be unkind to mess up the other child's day and Mycroft assured her they had plenty of time for deciding their next move.

In truth, a child in the midst of their hangovers did not sound terribly appealing.

John cut out almost immediately after Rosamund left, saying he was exhausted and wanted to go home.

Sherlock left soon after that, planning a nap then his afternoon with Young Watson.

Greg was left alone with Mycroft. Greg finished his tea with the intention of leaving himself but Mycroft offered to make streaky bacon, and eggs. Greg felt a tiny spark of hope and agreed, though his stomach was less enthusiastic. It was an excuse to postpone leaving.

He broke the silence with, "I am sorry if you are still angry with me."

Mycroft devoted his full attention to the hunting of a skillet in his own kitchen. Opening several cupboards before finding one with a sound of relived surprise. "I was angry. At many things at that moment. Most of all that I was certain that my brother had given his life for my own and for me it was the worst bargain of my entire career and do remember I survived Brexit. Which, though necessary at this juncture in history, is a grave error as well. Sherlock has been my responsibility since he was quite small. I was the nurturing brother, believe it or not."

"I do. Believe it. You took in Rosie-posie and never missed a beat. She likes you."

"Yes. Far too much any time I have matters of state to deal with. I have learned to keep several spare ties on my person, as she has an affinity for putting them directly in her mouth and that darling orifice is most often sporting something that stains, is sticky or requires professional removal," Mycroft said as the water just bubbled for poaching and he dropped the strained eggs in and lowered the heat.

"My Mum always said, either you laugh or you cry. From where I was sitting, it struck me funny is all. Meant no offence. Was not laughing at what you thought."

Mycroft gave a shrug and flipped the bacon. "Well, I was not at my best. Forgive me for acting the arse. We bicker, he and I, but he left his hospital bed, to save my neck. He was just lucky, and I do not like unexpected games of chance. I only bet on very good odds. And Siger deciding to stay, I was unable to process how it came to be. So, I simply deferred my emotions until I could manage the pressure valve."

"And I laughed inappropriately. It's all good."

"I could make coffee as well. There is a machine somewhere. That one I believe..." Mycroft attempted to figure out how it worked.

Greg laughed and showed him how you fitted the little cup in the top for a single cup of coffee. They sat down to poached eggs and dry toast and it was very nice to be home.

"You never did tell me how you got taken in the first place?" Greg asked.

"Long convoluted story, that. One of Anthea's assistants was at the root of it, as well as some Americans who have been knocked off their pedestal by the election a few months ago. Many ties with Iran and Islamic State... our true itinerary was disclosed and they meant to make an example of us and justify certain untenable endeavours and past cover-ups by exploiting murders they themselves arranged, to further their own agenda."

"Awful. Too bad Sherrinford blew up. Good place for them."

"I berated myself for allowing distractions to have let such a pathetically obvious plan bloom to fruition. Anthea attempted rerouting us but she too was sabotaged and by the time she caught her rat...we were being forced to our knees at gunpoint and the ones who complained of injuries were dispatched at once. I will never forget realising that, to break me, would break England. I was determined to do my duty and die or be killed before they realised who I was. "

"Didn't think of that. I just thought you were pig-headed and depressed!" Greg made another cup of coffee in the machine.

"I was only depressed when I realised your futile intention to die with me with a plan rigged by James. I had no idea he and Siger were in any way associated. I find I may have to take a hard look at my own incompetence and decide what punishment I am due." Mycroft said that as if he were perfectly serious.

Greg laughed. "Oh God... only you would put a warning in your own file because your assistant's assistant went chocolate teapot on you?"

"It is what I do! I must have adequate data--"

"You cannot wank cam everyone!" Greg blurted and immediately feared he had made a big mistake.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft went into high alert and his eyes narrowed.

"Oh nothing. Just something Sherlock teased me about. Didn't mean anything by it. But, it is almost noon, and I have rent due and probably some utilities to get turned back on, so this was great, but I need to go." Lestrade said with as much casualness as he could.

 

A week went by and Greg was back to work. Things were normal and he was wearing expensive suits and people were sick of him talking about Iraq and nobody cared what was happening to people there, which made him angry. People were fake and horrible and it was all he could see now. He constantly checked for news of Syria and listened to people on YouTube who uploaded videos of the work being done to rebuild. There were still suicide bombings going on.

He sought out Iraqi restaurants and found a shop that sold the thwabs and he wore it at night when he got off work. The only people who understood were John and Sherlock. He had not seen Mycroft since the chemical lobotomy night.

He got a text from Jim. A pic of Eurus petting the little black camel, out on the beach on St. James Island. She looked happy.


	60. Chapter 60

Greg saw the car in the street below his office. Parked in the zebra crossing, idling. He could not help it, he grabbed his coat, checked his hair and rushed to the lift. He grinned from ear to ear all the way to the street.

The second he got in the car, Greg wished he had not. Mycroft smiled and his eyes glittered malevolently, which meant that Mycroft was livid. He said not a word and dramatically looked out the window.

"Christ. What now?" Lestrade asked as tired of trying to figure this man out as he had ever been.

"Precisely how long have you and Sherlock felt the need to intrude on my private conversation?"

Lestrade did not say anything.

Mycroft pulled a small box up onto the seat between them. "These ancient artefacts were discovered in my home. From the colour of your face, and your increased heart rate, I have no doubts that you know exactly what I am saying."

Greg looked in the box and back up at Mycroft.

"Your silence tells me all I need to know."

"No. I have the right not to say anything. You have already drawn your conclusions before you ask me one bleeding question. So say whatever you came here to say, then let me out of the bloody car. "

"There will be an inquiry. They will need to know exactly what you were intending to do with any information you may have--"

  
"You have no right whatsoever to even be angry with me. This is you and Sherlock's game.. got it? Your crap, not mine. And how dare you. I know you watch me and have my flat bugged so this? Jesus, Mycroft... if you would've pulled that big brain of yours out of your backside for two seconds, maybe you would'a noticed, up until now? I did not mind!"

"There is a very significant difference. This is a security breach. Do you understand the ramifications? I am so disappointed--"

Lestrade tapped on the drivers partition. "Pull over, please. You know what? I give up, okay? I saw one night. The night John was there. Part of it. I made him shut it off. There was only one thing you said that was important to me. I made him shut it off because I would have moved heaven and earth to hear you say that. Fuck me, I did. Only reason I went to Iraq, when everyone to a man told me not to, was because what you said, I felt the same. You had given me some hope and God I was a fool. But I made him shut it off because no matter how much I wanted to hear that from you... I wanted to hear it to my face. But did that happen? No. You hedged around it then, blew me off."

"Have you forgotten that you are... engaged to my brother?" Mycroft stated with a question in his scornful, lordly way.

Greg opened the car door and put one foot on the kerb. "You don't have to do all this. You may not understand, with all your money. It was not worth anything to you, but I found the necklace you threw in the dirt. It was just a stupid shell on some leather, not worth a farthing to somebody like you. But the night I made it, it meant the whole fucking world to me, you snotty, hypocritical, bastard. "

He stood up and leaned back into the saloon. "I didn't ask to make it back to London. I didn't expect to even have a shot at survival after listening to John tell me what I was walking into. Only thing I asked for, was to please, let me have one minute to give it to you. Just a stupid little nothing, but a gift so you would know that I was thinking of you. Didn't want you to die, alone, not knowing . Look on the bright side, I got that... for me. And I got to live as well. Long enough to see that I have no business bothering. You want to talk to me about your brother. Make an appointment because this drop in kidnapping crap, stops right now. I have spent long enough to have either earned your respect or to accept the truth, that nothing I can do, ever will. "

Greg slammed the door and did not even glance around as he walked the three blocks back to NSY.

He called Sherlock and warned him. He gave Sherlock the synopsis and was surprised to hear a quiet, "I will take care of it. He was bluffing. About the inquiry. He does not conduct anything of interest from his home. Are you alright?"

"Fine. Aren't I always?" Greg ended the call. He really was not fine, but he grabbed a tea from the cart and just pretended, like he always did.

When he got off work he did not stop in Baker Street, for world war three. Instead, he did what he had been doing during his delightful divorce; he pulled up a stool at his local, mindlessly watched sports and drank until both his arse and his heart were numb.

Sherlock sat on the stool next to him. Greg kept his eyes on the telly, "Our game is over, you know. For me. You and John just need to get on with it."

"I told you what he would do. We are this close, I swear to you that--"

"No. I changed my mind. I do not want him, at all. I will help you with John, so long as you need, but I put up with mind games once before. Not doing it again. If I have to trick him, just not worth it," Greg said sipping his pint afterward.

"Don't you want to know what he said?"

Greg sighed. Shook his head and signalled the landlord for two. "What's the point. Won't change my mind. Saw who he really is today."

"You put up with far worse from me and you still like me?" He asked, genuinely curious.

Greg sighed. He looked at Sherlock and said. "Can I see in your shirt?"

Sherlock frowned and asked, "For what?"

Greg simply reached over and fiddled around for a second and pulled out the shell on the finely braided leather string. He smiled softly up at Sherlock. "Because you get me. You pretended not to like it, but it is still there. You almost died and yet, you kept it. I am like this little stupid shell. Only some people find me worth much. But those who do, know I would always be there, protecting them if I could. I gave them to everyone, but the whole time, I had this idea that If I could just give him one, it was going to save us all."

"Yes?"

Greg reached in his pocket and produced the shell on the broken leather braid that matched his own. He placed it on the counter and Sherlock tilted his head. "I laughed. At a moment he did not approve of, I laughed. He got Siger to perform last rights--"

"Don't call it that. It is just the anointing of the sick. A sacrament for healing," Sherlock interjected.

  
"...and I woke up to your bum with a tube in it and pointed at me, while they tried to decide if you preferred whatever you want to call it, in English or Latin. It made him angry. He ripped that off and threw it in the dirt.

"Didn't hardly speak to me again and made me feel like some nothing. Then he sort of apologised but he never once said a word about how he threw this away. But I let him slide. Been back a week. Not a word and that is fine, he is busy and important.

"Today, from my office window, I see his car slide up. Parked in a Zebra, because he is so important that he does not have to follow the rules or worry about tickets or even be considerate. He is Mycroft Holmes, Lord of the realm and above the boring law. I was too happy to see him to even explain. I didn't make him wait. I rushed down. Like some little kid, think they are going to the park. I could tell he was cross the second I saw him." Greg took another gulp of beer and set it down, his shoulders hunched further and he peeked up at Sherlock and clicked his tongue.

"Said I am a disappointment. Never asked and did not care if it was my idea. All he cared about was protecting his secrets. All that blustering and threatening me with legal bullies and terrible consequences... Just so he could protect one dirty little secret. One he never had the bollocks to say to my face. But, what he did have the bottle to call me was a disappointment.

"People have said that to me my whole life. My dad, my wife, hell most everyone one who would speak to me at all for a year and some after you died. Looking at him, made me realise... not a damned one of them ever worried about disappointing me. So, that is where this is. I am done. You can have the hopeless cases. And he can keep his bloody biblical ego, to himself because I am nobodies disappointing dirty little secret."

"He will calm down. He always does," Sherlock said knowing it did not help.

"I know he will. The deal is, until he can find value in little stuff, nothing coming from me will ever mean anything to him. Yeah? Because that's all I have to give him, is little stuff."

"Love is not little." Sherlock put his hand on Greg's arm.

Greg picked up the little shell and held it to the light. It had a deep translucent glow. "Exactly, and it is too much effort to waste on someone who thinks it is. You have to know how to hold it up to the light, in order to see the best part."

Greg shoved it back in his pocket, having made his point. "So how is John?"

"Weird. He is being nice to me. Has not yelled at me. Comes to see me just before Young Watson is to be picked up, then leaves before you arrive. I am not sure what to make of it."

Greg grinned, and chuckled. "I think it means he is preparing for war."

"What should I do?"

"The mood I am in? Let's give him one"

Sherlock hesitated.

"I told you to make him work for it. I nearly lost you out there and what we said to each other... still all true. But once upon a time, that man believed in you more than the rest of London combined. Lot of water under the bridge, I get it. But when we got you back to that little patch of shade, he called a clinic, he was trying. God, Sherlock, he was bent over a makeshift table, dealing with scorpions covered in fleas, picking maggots out of you, the heat and dust... tears in his eyes... but he stood there for hours. They built a whole tent around him and he would cry and want to give up, then he would harness that anger and keep going. Siger was amazing too, just so you know. But, he needs to fight, me, and win. He doesn't even think that I am actually competition. Said Irene is the only one he needs to beat."

Sherlock touched his face in frustration. "That doesn't even make sense. I told him, that I am gay. How can he..."

"She saved your life. I don't think he sees her as someone who is just a rival in the traditional way. Saving your life is his job. You confide things in her and don't talk to him. That eats him alive, in case you have not figured it out."

"When I do talk, it leads to, him leaving. Vicious cycle."

"Stay at mine tonight?" Greg asked.

"Why yours. Mine is closer."

"Call it petty, but your brother has my flat bugged. After today, I want him to wish he didn't."

Sherlock chuckled and raised his glass.

"Just, when you call out my name, let's try to get the right one as a special favour."

"Anything to cheer you up Ghailum. That means handsome, just so you know."

 


	61. Chapter 61

They got to Greg's flat and decided they were hungry. Greg surprised Sherlock when he produced a small tub of yogurt. It had no labels so he opened it and sniffed it.

"Where did you get this? I have searched. They have milk, but only flavoured yogurt drinks, which are not..." He dipped his finger into the creamy substance and groaned in appreciation.

"Wimbledon. Between the golf courses down in Robin Hood Way. Little market there. I told the owner what I was looking for. He... ummm has heard of your brother. Anyway they sell the raw milk there. He brought his wife out and introduced me and she was a little hesitant, didn't want to get into trouble. But she agreed to make yogurt, like from home and give it to me as a gift for the brother of the Malak al-Maut."

"Which you have finally learned to pronounce."

"I buy the milk at a special rate, bit over what others pay. They wouldn't have done it if not for me explaining about you being his brother. Could get them in trouble selling out of their own kitchen. They get enough flack, because people are stupid... like I used to be."

  
"Oh my god this is heavenly, I have been living on sprouted black matpe beans, lentils and juiced carrots and beetroot." He said this as he enthusiastically scooped spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.

"Yuck. What, really? Sprouts?" Lestrade made a face.

"Sprouts have micronutrients, especially when brought to life with green tea and seaweed, and the juice is quite nutritional. Not like I can heal up properly on chips and beer!"

"Where you getting that? I have seen your fridge."

Sherlock began scratching the bottom of the container as he always did to get every precious micron. "I sprout them of course, isn't hard, and I press the juice. Bought a spiffy machine like the twig-eaters use. John brings me carrots and Beetroot with the tops still on from a market by his surgery. Mrs Hudson gives me cucumbers and apples. He doesn't care what I eat so long as I eat, but after seeing the results of my efforts to maximise the process, he is considering doing a study on my data."

Lestrade snickered and teased, "He'd be a fool not to. There is more of that by the way. It isn't rationed." He produced a second container. "So, let me see this modern marvel of healing? Last I saw of it was pretty grim. Show me your ouchie!"

Sherlock set his prize aside and stood, untucking his shirt from his trousers and unbuttoned it quickly. Lestrade felt a stray surge of desire but kept his attention focused on Sherlock. He removed his Button-down and pulled the vest over his head then sat again.

He carefully pulled at the bandages.

"Wait, I don't have fancy stuff like....Oh! Wow! Sherlock. It is all closed up!" Lestrade exclaimed in fascination.

"Yes. The gauze is simply to protect my clothing at this point... still the odd serous exudate, which is healthy and normal. But so long as I do not sustain any direct trauma to the area, I am in the downhill stage of mending and the ... Greg?"

Greg's head shook and he brought the heals of his hands up to his eyes physically forcing the tears to stop. "Just a second."

"Why are you doing that? This is good news and..."

"Yeah, just... nothing." Greg wiped his face and smiled. "Sorry. I never dreamed that would ever look, mostly normal again. It really was bad, you know. Even once you were up and around. That... is some kind of miracle."

"That is just what John says. He has never seen a wound heal with this rapidity after sustaining such infectious complications. As I said, he wants to study the effects of sprouted foods in the healing of wounds. But, he would require funding and no pharmaceutical company will give him the time of day on that, put them out of business. Still works. Studied or not." Sherlock closed the container and handed it back to Lestrade. "Save the rest for breakfast"

"Yeah, no need. I got five more in here. Her batch makes seven for us and two for her and her husband. Got this yesterday evening after leaving your place. Meaning to drop it by as a surprise, but kinda bad day. But it is going home with you. I can't stand the stuff." Greg held up the other containers all containing about a pint but closer to 500gms.

Sherlock shook his head, "You are a wonder. "

Greg smiled feeling his tension ease a bit at the praise. He bent back to place the containers in the fridge and grabbed another beer when he felt a hand smooth down his back.

He turned and Sherlock was looking at him with a peculiar softness to his face. Greg opened his beer and stepped around him to swing the door shut. Sherlock, standing there shirt free and looking like that, made him inhale nervously. Sherlock's hand slid to his side and a slight tug pulled him forward.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to his lips and he leaned forward and kissed Greg. Greg held the beer away but did not stop him. "Ugh... you have camel breath."

"And you still need to visit a dentist." He said taking Greg's beer out of his hand and swishing it in his mouth before he went in for the kill.

Greg reached up and brought one hand to Sherlock's cheek and the other just touched his back pulling him closer. They lost time exploring this land of heady sensation, Sherlock lifted the bottle over his head, transferring it to the other hand and set it on the counter without stopping or looking and brought his hands to Greg's back.

Greg was fast losing his mind. He wanted what seemed to be on offer. He used all his will to stop, saying softly, "We can't."

Sherlock brought his hips forward and Greg felt the arousal that met his own. "We shouldn't, but let me assure you of the possibility."

"God. Okay, but we shouldn't then. You and John... God." Lestrade' eyes were half-closed and his heart beat hard with want.

"Oh. We should be faithful? To Mycroft who finds you disappointing and to John who only wants to love me when I am dead or in the proximity of the one they call my brother? We should by all means forgo all pleasure in case they come around," Sherlock murmured darkly in his ear as he very gently and painfully slowly aligned their cocks and slid against him.

"Jesus, you make it sound logical, but..."

"You wanted to fake, things that make him regret. I am simply proposing that they not be faked. What if we just see how things go. I have had a niggling curiosity for years. I know you have too. Why not?" Sherlock said this like a demon charming his soul, from one ear, broken by the touch of warm lips on his neck and cheeks and forehead then whispered into the other ear and back again to the first.

"Sherlock... I... we..." Greg tried but it was nearly beyond his ability to say no at this point, his own hips foraging iron against a fire.

"We are engaged. They already assume that we are. John is planning to seduce me away from you. How is it even wrong by his own standards? Shouldn't he have already declared himself if our coupling brought him pain. No, they string us along. Don't they?"

"They do. If you don't stop, Sunshine, I am going to give in. Do you hear me? I am getting lost in this.. so be sure." Greg had not felt this power since he was young. He felt wanted and that was hitting his libido like volcanic warning smoke.

"Do I look like a teenager who needs to be asked every six seconds for consent? I am perfectly capable of stopping you from doing anything I don't want. But, my answer is, anything you want... anything...is probably on the menu." Sherlock susurrated against his ear going straight to Lestrade's lizard brain.

"It will kill me if you regret it after... please... we need to talk." Greg said in a last ditch effort at rational thought.

"If I died. Would you have regretted it more if we had or had not, knowing I have desired you, and we could have shared this? I regretted it... watching the world fade in the shade of that wall. I turned to tell you...I wished we had...but you had gone to get the doctor."

That was the straw that made camels do what camels do. Greg growled and attacked Sherlock with all stops banished.

Sherlock was not repulsed by this change from gentle hesitant exploration to demanding passion. He,in fact, made a delicious whimpering noise and returned Greg's enthusiasm.

Mycroft's bugs were completely forgotten. They made it as far as the sofa before things got rather noisy and exceedingly messy. They were both too lost to care that this was not real, because it had become more than that. They writhed in the dancing blue fire of the Djinn, and all the rest of the world could not compete with the wish fulfilment taking place on a sagging sofa in central London.

 

 


	62. Chapter 62

Sex was fun and casual and comfortable and it was not a nerve racking transition from pretending to fact. They both grinned themselves to sleep after having well worked off any alcohol by round three.

Rather than awkward notions of mistakes and the endorphin crash of the morning after, Greg awoke to a Consulting Detective who, as always, had taken off early and expected Lestrade to catch up and provide backup. He had heard of being woke up in this fashion but about the time Sherlock had taken a large gulp of hot tea, and applied the result to this idea, Lestrade, now fully alert, came so hard he thought there was a possibility that he was having a heart attack and he simply did not care.

Sherlock popped off him with a broad grin upon his very shiny lips and said, "You are late for work, by the way. I called it in as you were about to make an arrest."

"Shit... wait, what?" Lestrade could barely breathe yet and he was an hour late already. "That sounds great until I show up empty handed." He searched through his drawers for some of the nice pants Sherlock bought him, and was struggling into his trousers and stuffing in his shirt by the time Sherlock handed him tea.

"Relax, breathe. You are making an arrest, well bringing in under caution. Sally is doing the morning brag and grumble as we speak. John has forbidden me from 'working ' cases, but there is a tiny problem with that idea, you see, I hate it! So, I have been digging through your old boringly unsolvable ones, little Bee prefers them to story time, and we are off to prove, Mrs. Mary Malone did indeed Murder Mr. Malone and his cousin. She said she was in New York, solid alibi, not even in the country. Backed up by Mabel Carson, who sadly died three years ago before I could prove she was a liar. They were in New York, watched Peter Pan. "Peter Pan" closed at Minskoff Theater NYC January fifth of nineteen-ninety-two and yet Mabel made note of how exciting it was to see on February twelfth. Trip of a lifetime, first Broadway show...think I might recall if there were fairies and pirates or homeless kids in a subway tunnel... 'Metro' was playing, not 'Pan', no internet back then to double check her embellishment and the two ladies, lived off the proceeds of Mr. Malone's stock and life insurance for the rest of their days. But, if we check, we might just discover that they were in fact lovers, and one grew tired of the other in the end."

"My god, She'd be seventy years old by now."

"As I am sure you recall, old ladies can be horrifically deadly. "

Greg smiled, "You did all that just so you could make me an hour late this morning?"

"Oh no. I had already solved it. I simply waited for some event with which I could use the information advantageously."

Sally eyed Lestrade as he and Sherlock paraded to his office. She made a beeline to follow. "Hello, Freak, heard you almost died?"

"My apologies for disappointing you. How'd you do sitting your 'not OSPRE' NPPF thing? Can we look forward to you moving on any time soon, so Lestrade can find a trainable one?"

She glared and said, "I can't see the state of your knees, but from how chapped your lips are, our own Arabian Knight here musta had a very good, hump day so far."

"It seems, just like you, my mouth is good for something. I just have better taste in my menu selections. How's DI Brighton's wife doing? Haven't seen her bringing colourful trifles to the break room lately. Have to give her a ring. Tell her she is missed," Sherlock said, as smooth as chocolate syrup.

She aggressively stood close and said, "You and the Guv, break up, better hope you don't get a parking violation."

"You do realise there is a psychological evaluation tied to your promotional aspirations?"

"Explains why you can't be a real cop?"

"Step down from MI6 don't you think?"

"Children! If you want to go to the park later, daddy needs you to play nice." Greg said in a passable imitation of Jim.

Sherlock smiled deliciously, "Forgive me father for I have sinned. See you tonight? Stop by the chemist's for Dr Bronner’s Lip Balm, I prefer the orange-ginger."

Sally made gagging sounds.

 

 


	63. Chapter 63

Wrapped up in a sort of blissful montage of delight, two weeks had passed since a bad day had become a great day. John had continued his pattern of afternoon visits to Baker Street and Lestrade never laid eyes on him.

The flock of cameras across from his flat disappeared one day, leaving unsightly mounting holes and in some cases a lighter beige paint rectangle that stood out from the more recent surrounding coat of tan paint. He tried to feel sad about this turn of events, but Sherlock had taken a special pleasure of activity in the sitting room and he was not overly diligent when it came to making sure there was not a small gap, when he closed the curtains.

The day he had been delayed by a quick trip to an organic market for Sherlock held a great deal of promise for the evening. He stepped into the kitchen of 221b and the glass doors to the sitting room were nearly closed. The violin played a soft lullaby and Greg smiled to himself as he set his purchases on the floor and hung his jacket.

"Oh, Sunshine. I got three hands of ginger for that figging thing you want to try. I hope you know what you're doing because I looked it up on the internet and..." his words died in his throat as he slid the door back and met the widened and appalled eyes of the British Government.

John Watson slid forward in his chair and turned all the way around as he said, "Do me a favour, and when that goes horribly wrong, as it does all too often, don't call me. And do not try an enema first either, just floats the foreign object deeper into the bowel making it worse, just a heads up from an experienced A & E doctor's perspective."

Sherlock turned a really vibrant shade of magenta and yet Greg saw a tension on his face that he knew meant big trouble. "Didn't know we had company. What's going on?"

"They have decided they need to speak to us both in person. I can imagine only one subject that weighs so heavily. Please have a seat so they can get on with it?" Sherlock said with a petulant scratch of the E string that sounded like fingernails on chalkboard.

Greg pulled up the client chair and sat in it back forward and elbows resting on the back. Sherlock put his violin down in its case without closing the lid and hung his bow from the music stand after twisting the knob on the end to ease the tension on the horsehair. He stood directly behind Greg, arms crossed and facing partially towards the window.

Mycroft took a deep sigh and began, "We decided that the information we are about to visit should be done in person. I have found a suitable home for Miss Watson with a loving couple, minor royals, who can provide her with a stable home and every advantage life has to offer. She will be raised in a delightful country manor just outside of Edinburgh and have a fairytale life. They have met with Rosamund and are enchanted and wish to proceed. Doctor Watson has agreed that this is for the best."

Sherlock stared at John, without saying a word.

John felt uncomfortable and filled the air with his excuses. "Look, I cannot offer her this kind of life and I want her to be happy. I have never told you this but my father beat the shit out of me, pretty much all the time. I am afraid and if Mary were here, I think I may have pulled this off but... I know the two of you had some notion of..."

Sherlock very quietly said, "Of course. She is your daughter and I never had a chance to be of any use to her. I hope you will at least allow Mrs. Hudson and myself the courtesy of a goodbye. Now, please get out of my home and never come back. Our association is severed from this point forward. And that goes especially for you, brother...mine. I will never speak to you again." With his usual dignity, Sherlock got his coat and walked out the door without another glance.

Greg turned and looked at them and shook his head in disgust. "Well, hope the two of you are proud of yourselves. You just broke him."

Mycroft tried to sound reasonable and conciliatory, "I know this may seem disappointing in the short term but I do believe that this is the best course of action not only for the sake of the child but for his long term stability. You and he would have tired of the experience quickly and she needs to--"

"No. You two have cocked up this time. You really have no idea. Of the four people in this room, the one who deserves her the most, the one who loves her more than anything, you just destroyed." Lestrade said baffled at this turn of events.

"Please be reasonable. We all know he will get bored with her. He has no--"Mycroft began.

"He takes care of her every afternoon. Every day. His whole day is planned around it. You are bloody monsters. I wish he had left you in Sherrinford and you in Iraq. Because if we had, the one thing he would have been able to think, was that you cared for him. Would have torn him up, but at least he would have never known what you really thought of him and in my opinion that... would have been better than this. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find Billy Wiggins. Hopefully, before he does." Lestrade went to the kitchen and got his coat then popped his head back into the room.

"And John? That bit about how you thought that you could win his heart if we survived our adventure? You lose. You go through with this? Stay away or you and me are going to have a very uncomfortable discussion about an unarmed cabbie. If he OD's tonight, save your crocodile tears for someone who thinks you are walking talking humans. Have a great day!" Greg rushed out the door and pulled out his phone.

As he walked by Mrs, Hudson she had tears in her eyes as she said, "You go find him. I will see to those two, straight away. My boys from Speedy's are on their way."

Greg checked around. He spoke to Billy and was assured that he had not seen him. The homeless network avoided him like a cop, but he could not shed that seemingly bone deep tell, nor get them to overlook his job.   
The few who did know him enough to understand that if he was beating the bins, then Sherlock Holmes must be in trouble, told him they would keep their eyes open. Lestrade took that information with a grain of salt and yet he hoped.

He found Sherlock at the boating lake sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. A call had come in that someone had refused to leave the park at closing. He took a chance it might be Sherlock from the description.

Sherlock sat perfectly still looking into the darkness at nothing. He only acknowledged Greg with a slow blink as he sat down next to him.

"I think the only person I ever hated more was Charles Augustus Magnussen. Mary Watson shot me and I never hated her like this. Not for a moment. They are taking my Bee, and I will never see her again. I considered kidnapping her, but that kind of life would frankly make me the selfish one."

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. We will figure something out. Maybe visitation?"

"No. It would just confuse her. I knew about his father, of course."

"Yeah. I suspected. See an awful lot of it in my line of work."

"Billy lied, you know. I was standing right there when you spoke to him."

"Okay. How much?" Greg held out his hand and waited.

"Just a bump. To get me past. I will possibly need two or three more."

Greg waved his fingers. "Then you will ask me. Not doing this alone this time, Sunshine. You don't know when to stop if nobody holds you accountable. Not judging, but not alone."

Sherlock reached in his pocket and handed over a package. Greg tucked it in his pocket and took Sherlock's hand.

They sat in the dark for a while then Sherlock asked, "Do you think they have gone away?"

"Oh, I think Mrs. Hudson may have had them dropped out a window." Greg said with an innocent smile to hide the sly twinkle in his eyes.

"She can be somewhat vengeful. Home?" Sherlock stood and they walked slowly back to Baker Street.

 

 


	64. Chapter 64

Greg Lestrade was not noted for time off. He was the epitome of a workaholic. He worked long days then went home for a quick wink and often returned in the evening to putter around and ponder his cases until the witching hours of the night. For every case he involved Sherlock in, Greg worked thirty or more. They were not all dazzling press worthy stories and the arrests were most often peaceful and routine.

But when Greg was associated with the fake genius and the world was against him, it was far more than Mycroft Holmes that had saved his job. It was his own DI and those he spent years working with that went up against the system with him that kept him in the department. Mycroft helped, there was no doubt, but it had also been the fact that they just couldn't afford to lose him.

Being a Detective was not like on the Telly where they waited eagerly for a case and diligently followed it to the conclusion. A DI may have twenty active cases at any given time and more were on their pending file and even more were on the pile of still open but unable to move forward. Greg was notorious for working leads on his own time and had a phenomenal clear rate. He had months of time built up and people were aware that when he was 'off' he seemed to still end up working in some capacity.

He had been this way for years and it had aged him, in a very attractive way, but it had aged him. The fact he was suddenly going home at night and staying gone was unheard of but when he had taken time off for a MI6 mission of some sort, he had passed into a new realm of awe. He had no idea, just thought he was a bit sad arse in people's eyes. When he had to explain that he needed personal days, people assumed he must be seriously ill. He was again given time off without question. Unbeknownst to him, rumours were twinkling in the offing.

The real reason for his request was his need to stay with Sherlock. They had returned to the flat and Sherlock had made several attempts to get him to leave, none of which Greg was buying. Eventually Sherlock had bitterly flounced to his room and locked the door. Greg was not John, hesitant about boundaries and woe to give an inch when dealing with childish manipulation. Greg had spent his whole life in confrontation so he did not huff out the front door for 'air' but slipped into the ensuite and straight into the bedroom, bypassing the locked door.

The Great and Obnoxious Sherlock Holmes in full on silent meltdown was the last thing he expected to find. He had always imagined that he paced or pouted or napped or maybe imbibed in secret stashes of drugs whilst locked away and refusing to answer. But Sherlock was on the floor rocking himself in a mute scream. His face was swollen and snot and spittle mingled with copious tears and yet it was soundless.

Greg startled him as he went to pull him close. Sherlock tried to pull away and hide. Greg did not allow that and began to rock him as he would a child. "It's okay, Sunshine. I'm here. You just let it all out. I've got ya. Damned them to hell, but I have you."

It was a period of time that felt long, but probably was not. "John is gone," Sherlock moaned in misery. "All of him. Even my mind palace one's. Even the one with a moustache. And my Bee. All of him is gone."

He listened to more of this and finally when he began to wind down in exhaustion, Greg convinced him to move up to the bed. He petted his head and when Sherlock slept he left the room and began making the necessary calls, asking for a week off. He had a feeling it was going to be a rough few days.

He got several texts from John, mixed in with the three homeless people who were texting him every hour with no news. He returned their texts and thanked them profusely. He did not answer John just yet, but he did read them.

[Greg, I know you are angry, but please let me know if you find him?]

[Greg, any word? John]

[Could you at least respond? Bit childish. Him I expect that from.]

[I have been checking some of his known spots. Getting worried. You?]

[If he's out on the lash, I've a good idea where to find him.]

[Just left that doss house in Tower Hamlets, I have searched Spitalfields area and Weavers, quick trip to A & E then going to Millwall. Any word?]

[Out in Southwark. You know he likes Cathedrals area. Got one of his homeless network flop houses here somewhere.]

Greg text him back.

[I found him. He is home. Why were you in A & E? DIG]

[Slight differences of opinion on etiquette. I did not like the bloke's silverware. Is he clean?]

[Short answer is no, but unless you want to sedate him, I am not sure if stopping him is serving him either.DIG]

[Morphine or Cocaine?]

[Neither. You don't want to know. But I am in charge of the chemistry set for the moment so no danger of him going Culverton again DIG]

[You can't let him start. Addicts don't just wake up clean.]

[??? Thanks doc. Heads up, he has erased several versions of U from his mind palace. Even the one with the mustachio, apparently.DIG]

[What you spose that means? No Johns in his head anymore? Now, tell me more about what my options are here. After you helpfully caused this in one hammer blow?DIG]

[Can I stop by? Let me talk to him. I can explain. He has blocked me.Facebook. Twitter. Deactivated my blog. Everything]

[Hell no. John, there is nothing to even explain. Your wife shot him and he forgave it. You beat him and he forgave it. DIG]

[She was his goddaughter yeah? So if something happened to you... he mistakenly took it seriously. You should talk to Molly. See how serious he was. DIG]

[This is not ever going to fix. Get it? He will not forgive this. You stopped existing a few hours ago. DIG]

[You kinda just made my point. Greg??? What happens when something doesn't go his way and he ODs? ]

[Or she brings home a low mark on a Science paper? So he erases her. Or he is on a three day pout? Or in a black mood?]

[You remember those? What happens when she gets big enough to open the bloody, meaning literally blood dripping down the crisper, fridge?]

[I am only doing what is best for everyone. Even if it is not the popular choice. She is the only perfect thing in my life. If he does not screw her up, I will. This is for the best!]

[whatever let's you sleep, mate. Go home. He is out of your life and not your business now. Just texted you back so you could stop looking for him. You and Mycroft have a nice life.DIG]

[Don't be angry at him. He is only doing what I ask. If anything, he has gone above and beyond. If you let go of the first emotional reaction, I think you will see.]

[I see a man who has just lost his best friend and his brother all because he did the right thing. Bit gutted myself by the way. DIG]

[I knew he would argue a bit. Never expected this. How could I have expected this?]

[Not playing. We told you. We were getting married for the sake of your daughter! DIG]

[When he thought he was going to die of maggots and infection.. last words. Do you pay any attention at all?DIG]

[People that sick say all kinds of crazy things. They talk to angels and dead grandparents. They swear all sorts of things they will do if they live. Usually exactly zero of those things happen when and if they recover. ]

[Do not judge us all by your standards. You spent hours telling him all the things you should have said. Then skived off again as soon as he was better.DIG]

[I already filed the papers. Soon as we got back. When has my word not been good?Evidently I was not even worth a look. DIG]

[Just some poor copper. Not minted. Not a minor royal with a castle. So sod off. It is done and so am I. This argy-bargy is pointless.DIG]

[Please. I don't want to leave it like this.]

[Greg, this is not going to change how I feel about what is the best thing in the long run!]

[You still there? Let me come over]

[I am outside. Please come down?]

[Mrs. Hudson has that ridiculous 1878 double action Colt pointed at me. Please. Save me.]

[I've been shot]

[Okay, not really. Just hoped you would not ignore that. I have now bled out on the steps, and died. Happy?]

[Saw the curtains move. Still here. She said the gun is too heavy. Has a frying pan now.]

[Jesus, I just spoke to Molly. What the hell was he thinking? Greg... seriously. Let me come up. I have to get this sorted. Please.]

Greg wrote Sherlock a note. Put it right in front of Sherlock's face, in case he woke up. He went down alone.

Greg thanked Mrs. Hudson. Said he would take care of it. She gave John's direction a glare and got up from the chair she had pulled into the doorway. Greg held out his hand for Sherlock's gun.

She hesitated then handed it to him. "You may need it, I understand. Careful, it is loaded."

"Jesus Horacio... the hammer is cocked!" Greg grumbled at her.

She looked slightly indignant. "Well of course it is. I am old and that trigger is a hard pull!"

"Have you fired this thing before?" Greg asked, stupefied.

She tittered sweetly, "Oh you. Don't ask, don't tell."

Greg sighed deeply and shook his head. They were all boiling bats. He cautiously uncocked it, easing the hammer forward. He could not stand in the streets with it and it was far too big to tuck in his trousers, like John casually did with his Sig. He searched about and ended up hiding it in Sherlock's coat pockets, hoping to keep it away from Mrs. Hudson too.

John, leaning on a random car parked at the kerb, stood up and uncrossed his arms as Greg emerged from the building and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Thank you." John headed towards the door.

Greg stepped into his way. "No. He is out cold. I came to tell you. Go home. I don't care why. I don't. He doesn't either. "

"Look, I am really sorry. I am. I am not wrong. But, really... seriously. I did not believe for a moment that he was going to even question me more than just the usual. This is hard for me as well!"

"Then stop it. Anyway you want to go, I promise we will stand behind you. Just not this. Cause no offence meant, but no sorry on this earth will make this better. You want to see him, don't come knocking again without that little one."

John studied his face then snorted, a frustrated smile. "Did he really try on proposing to Molly? The most dog's breakfast proposal of all time, from her description?"

"Gave me tips, how to do it better, so I didn't cock it up as bad, but it was still what he was worried about. Her. Not the fact he was on his last pins. Worried what would become of your child in a world without him. I did tell you?"

John shook his head and looked up at the window. "Okay. No promises but I will think about it. I will. But he and I need to talk? I can't make a decision based on all this second hand maybe stuff."

"Then come back tomorrow. Bring Rosie? Look for yourself and really see this time."

"Yeah. Okay. But don't get his hopes up. I will know if you do and making him perform a circus act is not going to change my mind. Tomorrow evening and so help me God, he better be sober?" John said already regretting his own waffling.

"No. I won't. He would never survive another today. Especially if he knows everything depends on what you see in a few hours."

"One more thing. What happened with you and Mycroft?" His brows sloped downward in curiosity. "Just, thought you and he were closer and there was some major chill going on before we even started?"

"Same thing as you. Sees what he expects to see and never looks deeper. My bad for seeing more in him than was there. Ironic id'n'it?"

John tilted his head and smiled apologetically. "See you tomorrow. Maybe call Mrs. Hudson off? Not comfortable with her and... illegal firearms?"

"Like she can be cooperative when she's of a mind any more than himself? Please. Body armour... best I can do."

John laughed and sighed heavily. "Tomorrow then."

 

 


	65. Chapter 65

When Greg awoke, he found Sherlock curled up next to him, staring straight at him as if he was not there. Greg snapped his fingers and got no response. He assumed Sherlock was off in the mind palace, searching for John or erasing him entirely, but had no idea which.

He got out of bed and made tea and toast. Took it to Sherlock and set it on his nightstand. He left the room and straightened the flat as best he could. Mostly that meant piling the clutter into neater piles of clutter.

He got a text message from Sally.

[Hey boss. I heard a rumour of sad news. Is it true? I don't mean to pry. I just care. DSSD]

Shaking his head at how anyone could already know about what took place with Rosie Watson, he texted her back. John only had to tell one person and Greg knew John spoke to Molly last night so no doubt who the source of the gossip was.

[I am sorry to say that it is. DIG]

[Oh Greg, I am so very sorry. You are going to fight this, right? DSSD]

[Going to do my best. Meeting with John Watson tonight to see what our options are. DIG]

[How did Sherlock take it? He must be very upset? DSSD]

[He is pretty much inconsolable, frankly. It has hit him very hard. DIG]

[I never thought I would feel sorry for him, but I do. Both of you. Let us all know if there is anything we can do?DSSD]

[That is very kind. Thanks. Really. DIG]

He went back into the bedroom. Sherlock had not moved, and was still staring into space but he was there this time.

"I made you a cuppa, but it is probably cold. I will get you a fresh. Need you to get up in a bit?" Greg said kindly.

"No."

"No, to the tea or the getting up?"

"Both. What for?"

"Well, John is stopping by--"

"Extra No!"

"..with Rosie this evening. And you need to be showered and sober. He came last night. To talk. Mrs. Hudson pulled that long barrelled revolver and a frying pan on him. If it were anyone else that combination would terrify me. It actually does... She handed it to me still cocked, and..."

Sherlock stood in the bed, walked across it and leaped toward the loo. The shower began. He emerged thirty minutes later, dressed and in crime scene mode. "What time will he be here? We have so much to do. I have to shop. They will send her with her things? I hope so. I have to think of all her birthdays and research age appropriate for up to age eighteen... oh god and Christmas too. They have money so they will be able to buy her everything amazing and lovely in the world, so whimsical it will have to be. I have made a start on Christmas so I can improvise a bit on the books and plushy toys but.. we need at least thirty gifts and cards for her over the years and--"

"Sherlock, stop. This is not the goodbye visit. He wants to talk. This is just for you to spend some time with her. I told him you would not see him without her. Call it a bribe? Do not go all barmy..."

"What are you not telling me?"

Greg sighed and rubbed his inner eye sockets. "I promised not to tell you. Look, do not get you hopes up and do not act like a damned loon, but there is like maybe a five percent chance okay? I told him that he had to see her with you. To really see. If he thinks for a second you are putting on or trying to fool him in any way, it is over. You cannot be Sherlock Holmes. You have to just be honest ... you have to be Otter."

"I... see," He said now beginning to panic in a new way.

"Why does she call you that? She is right, now that you mention it, but isn't she a bit young to know her animals?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "She is saying Godfather. But she can only say the last part, which sounds like... Aahh-ter."

Greg stood there blinking and then grinned. "But you do look like an Otter."

"Shut up! You Otter fetishist."

They bickered a little and flirted a lot. It helped to pass the time.

Six o'clock came and passed. Greg sent a text to see if they were still on. John replied that Rosie was not feeling great and offered to cancel because she had just projectile vomited and he was changing clothes. It was decided that she had no fever so they would come.

Sherlock was getting nervous and when John finally came up the stairs, Sherlock was trembly and white as a sheet. When Rosie saw Sherlock, she kicked her legs and demanded, "Ahhhh-terrrrr!"

And finally she was in the man's arms and not thirty seconds later, Sherlock was wearing an ungodly amount of sour curdled milk.

 

 


	66. Chapter 66

Sherlock touched her head, ignoring the copious amounts of white chunks on her and himself. He frowned, picked up the baby bag and took her to the kitchen. "Well, Young Watson. You have been overfed and did not manage to burp properly. So first, Godfather must change you and slip off this silly messy coat. We will put on a nice dressing gown, and then we shall have ourselves a dance and after I will tell you a story?"

He put her in the high chair and got rid of his coat and replaced it with a clean dressing gown, then took her straight to his room, laid out a receiving blanket and changed not only her little dress, but her nappy as well. Then he returned to the kitchen.

A strange noise was heard that sounded like a repetitive hoarse "waaaheee" sound.

Sherlock fed this strange machine that looked like an upside down coffee maker apples and bits of cucumber. John stood at the kitchen door, arms crossed and simply watching.

Sherlock chopped an array of veg and fed it to the machine. The machine burbled juice out a spout into a plastic pitcher. When he was finished, he opened the cupboard and poured this very red concoction into a Nuby beaker cup with little blobby birds with purple wings on the outside.

He gave Rosamund a sip. She drank half of it demandingly then he set it on the table. He picked her up. He lifted her right hand, kissing it. She extended her arm out in the palm of his and grinned at him.

"Are you ready, Miss Watson?"

She kicked her legs like he was a pony and said "ahh-taaah"

He counted to her softly and formally waltzed with her, singing the count as the tune. As soon as they began dipping and spinning, she got a very serious look on her face and seemed to have all the dignity of a debutante as they spun around the room.

"You are going to make her sick again and when that comes up, it is going to permanently stain every thing it touches," John said watching the dance with fondness.

"This will not... come back up...It will pop ...the acidic bubbles ...the formula ..caused, she is ...nearing time ...to remove it from her diet ...and it has never fully ....agreed ....with her. Now my sweet ...Bee give us a burp for your daddy... and show him... your true calling... maybe in the field of construction...or perhaps... a lorry driver... if your gas expulsion talent can... only be guided a ...

  
John Watson stepped back as a fog horn blasted out of his daughter. "Good lord..."

"That's my Wee Bee. All better now? Yes you may have the rest of it, because you gave me a brilliant rendition of the old Trevose Head, in Cornwall which you will never hear because it has been decommissioned... curse satellite navigation and it's accuracy." He had stopped waltzing and spoke normally. Rose nodded her head and sucked the juice down greedily.

"What are you feeding my child?" John asked both amazed and slightly miffed.

"Apple, beetroot, cucumber, just a hint of fresh ginger, " He cleared his throat and continued, "...carrot and Jicama juice. I also put a dropper full of olive oil in it. I do not feed your child Polydimethylsiloxane, despite its common use as a breaker of surface tension in the gastrointestinal tract of infants."

"It is perfectly safe. I recommend it to parents all the time," John said.

  
"Nevertheless, my method works. She is thriving on it and too many milk based products upset her system, as do organic polymers. I have spoken to the nanny, but she is a bit old school, and she talks whilst inhaling, so I don't think she understands." Sherlock stated, never taking his eyes off Rosie.

Sherlock sat Bee on the floor and built block towers for her to knock down. John sat in his chair and observed.

"When did this happen? This baby knowledge?" John asked.

"Mrs. Hudson got me started. When you went... away. Bee is like a never ending puzzle. The moment you solve one thing and figure her out, she grows and changes and moves to a whole new set of mysteries."

"So you don't think she is boring?"

"How could she be? Most interesting human in all of London." He said the last part to her as she crashed another block tower and giggled.

"What if she had a fever with the vomiting?" John asked.

"Then I immediately call her very competent doctor to determine if it is a stomach virus, check her ears and determine if she has come into contact with any unsavoury virus laden peers or seems to have become droopy and or is suffering symptoms of pain," Sherlock rattled off.

"What if you are on a case and she needs to stay home?" John fired back.

"Then I rearrange my schedule if Molly, and Mrs. Hudson are unavailable and there is the nanny when all else fails." Sherlock built an arch and Rosie banged the top of it and it collapsed.

"A parent is more than just a few hours a day? If you were always with her, how would you work? You cannot take her to crime scenes. Just being on a case, she would interfere. What if she is up all night crying? What happens when you play violin at four in the morning and wake her? What will you do with her when you disappear into your mind palace and she wanders half way to Soho by the time you notice? How on earth do you think that this is something that you want?"

Sherlock looked up sadly, and asked, "Is this a quiz, John? If I get all the right answers, do I get to keep her? If that is the stake, you tell me the answers you want. I will do anything I must to pass the test."

John met his eyes and they stared at each other.

His tone changed and Sherlock dropped his eyes, "Please, John. I am begging. At least give me a chance. I don't care what I have to do. I love this person as I have always loved you. Without reservation. Without ability to stop. Even if you choose to kill me? I can only bide and wait for you to be finished, because I cannot stand against you." Sherlock lifted her back into his arms and cuddled her reverently.

Mrs. Hudson, free of illegal and improvised weapons, picked that moment to "youwho " through the door. She looked down at John and said, "You are allowed so long as she is part of the bargain. I will still shoot you alone. Very idea giving her away like an inconvenient puppy. You should be ashamed of yourself. I know you will figure out just the right thing to do, in the nick of time as always, but you gave us quite a turn with all that nonsense. And hello little love bee?"

The only one who dared interrupt Mrs. Hudson's chattering was Rosie, who pointed and announced, "Yaya!"

"There you are. Yaya has a kissy."

Sherlock lifted Beè up for Mrs. Hudson to plant little pecks all over her cheeks. Bee submitted then waved at the blocks and babbled cheerfully. The only intelligible sound was "Ahh tah"and perhaps something about "My Nono."

They had biscuits and Sherlock sat her on his lap and told her a fairytale all about her.

"There was once the daughter of a hero. Her brilliant mother had died to save the life of an evil know-it-all who had once saved the life of her father, the hero. So she was of the line of heroes, born.  
"The little girl was also blessed with great beauty and enchanted all who met her. She even enchanted the evil know-it-all and made him more of a soppy know-it-all, and less prone to making people cry.   
"One day, she went to live in a beautiful castle far far away. She was happy and lived with every good thing of the land just for the asking.   
The soppy know-it-all was long forgotten by the time she was a bit grown but he had never forgotten her.   
"He grew too old to be a know-it-all any longer and he found the castle that was the home to the princess. He bought a tiny cottage near her and he raised bees and watched over her. She did not know him, but every morning she ate his fine honey in her tea.   
"The know-it-all grew old and feeble. One day there was no honey for tea. The young woman found him at his table, having finally found peace. In his kitchen and all over his house were little photos of her and a handsome evil know-it-all who loved her to the end of his days."

Greg had tears in his eyes, as did Mrs. Hudson.

John took the sleeping child from Sherlock's lap and made his goodbyes.

Greg walked John to the door and waited for the taxi with him. "So... How did he do? Any hope?"

"I need some time to think. But, I have to say, I feel like a complete heel at this moment. Just.. don't push, I am a bit not good, just this second," John said almost hoarse.

Greg nodded, and swallowed down the bullet point case notes he could contribute in favour.

Greg helped John and Rosie into the black-cab and he saw the CCTV turned toward him and the curtains moving and the shadow of a slim man playing a shadow violin and swaying with the lullaby waltz he played.


	67. Chapter 67

Back up stairs, Sherlock seemed in a better mood. He was still melancholy and reserved but it was a significant improvement from disengaged and non-functioning.

Greg made juice for Sherlock. He had no clue what he was doing but threw a bunch of stuff in and hoped for the best. It came out a deep orange and he sipped it, made a face and added three apples. He presented this amateur potion to Sherlock. He did consume every drop of it, so it must have been okay. Sherlock liked camel yogurt, the man could not have that discerning of tastebuds.

They watched some telly and soon Sherlock curled up next to him. "Do you think it went okay?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Greg gave his honest opinion. "I do not think it could have gone better. But, it is fine to be optimistic, but try not to get your hopes up. He really is too unpredictable to be sure of. You know that."

"That was what I liked the most. I don't like it so much now."

Greg put his arm around Sherlock and petted his hair. They were quiet for a while then Sherlock stared at him and slowly a smile crept up his features.

"What is it, Sunshine. I see the cogs over heating as they spin."

"We still have ginger. We still have quite a lot of it." Sherlock stood and looked back toward Greg with that smouldering tweak that adjusted his face from haughty to haunting.

"Yeah... should not let that go to waste." Greg was off the couch and pulling his shirt off on the way.

Sherlock took refuge in him and the pleasure they could share. Greg gave him every gesture of kindness and worship he could imagine. Sherlock returned it with playful mischief, mixed with the same focus of single mindedness he used to solve any puzzle.

It was a fine world between pleasure and pain and what ramped up the build up and topped the foam on the pint, also burned like a witch in North Berwick about sixty seconds past euphoria. Eyes wide they both tried to play tough guy, then screamed like little girls and fought like children for the cooling stream of the shower.

It was a good night and as they fell asleep the silence would be broken with the odd chuckle and a question such as, "Do you think it is blistering?" or, "Anyone asks about our sex life, the term 'smokin ' comes to mind." And, "Hot pants!"

Sherlock awoke with a sigh and his belly shook with chuckles at last nights adventure sex. He woke up Greg in his favourite way and they had a casual breakfast after the entree. The mood was elevated and everything tickled the other's funny bone.

The day wore into afternoon and they had naps and talked about anything other than what was actually on their minds. That evening a call came in, and John was coming over, alone and needed to speak to them.

Lestrade held Sherlock's face between his hands and said, "No matter what, I love you. If he breaks your heart, just have faith that I will find a way to see you through it. The good or bad, tell me you trust me?"

"I adore you, Grailleon," Sherlock said fondly.

Greg wrinkled his nose, and tilted his head down, looking up in question. "Never heard that one."

"No, most people don't read the romances any longer... they stop at the story of Arthur. Grailleon was the actual Grail King. Brother to the Fisher King and son of the Maimed King. He was always my favourite, though he and his daughter were betrayed by the Red Knight and Lyonnesse sunk into the sea and the city of Y's was no more. The grail is not a cup, by the way, but a chain of knowledge keys with which to understand the old texts. Sorry. Mycroft and Siger told me tales when we were young. You are my, lion of wisdom, dear man, not book clever, but people brilliant."

"I think he is here. We will be okay." Greg kissed him on the forehead like a Sigil of protection.

They broke apart as John entered the room with a cursory knock.

John tilted his head at Greg and hung up his coat. Greg offered him tea and went to make it. John sat and leaned his elbows on his knees. Without preamble he said, "Yes, we have four options, I would like to run by you but you also have to agree to my conditions?"

Sherlock wilted in relief and Greg dropped a cup.

"Do not be pleased just yet. You have not heard it all. Number one, no drugs again. Not ever. One slip and you can save the whole universe but my mind will not change. There is no second chance. No excuse, and yes I know it is highly unfair, but that is just number one."

"I agree."

"Sure? Okay... easier than I expected. Number two ...There will be counselling because we are bollocks at this communications thing. We have to get better. Especially me, but you as well?"

"Reasonable and Yes," Sherlock said with a nod.

Greg brought three mugs of tea and handed them out, grinning from ear to ear.

"Ta," John said sipping his own. "You have to be certain. This is a long haul commitment and I know you have spent time with her, I know, but not all day every day. I want you to be her sole carer for a week so you can--"

"Easy. Yes. What ever you say is yes. Get to the options." Sherlock was all tension, certain this would somehow be snatched from him.

John snickered, "Another condition is you do all the housework and the washing up and rub my feet in the evening and mow the sodding lawn."

Sherlock frowned and swallowed, looking at Greg for help. "We don't have a sodding lawn?"

John laughed and pointed his finger, "And you need to not sign up for the unknown."

"In this case, I have no choice, so it does not matter." Sherlock shook his head and folded his fingers in his lap, obviously miserable at this confession and hating his position.

John tilted his head and cleared his throat. "Greg, remember our talk in the chapel? Well this is war, and just so you know, I am sorry."

"What do you mean...by...." Greg trailed off the question.

"Sherlock, I want you to know, this is not a conditional point. This is just one option. If you say no to this, then we have others. But, this is the one I am hoping for. This is what I would like. See, I really did not know. I am not saying it was even a conscious thought, but at the same time, it was part of the decision and I cannot deny it. Took therapy with a real therapist, emergency session this morning, in fact, for me to even acknowledge that this was in my head. " John took a sip of his tea and carefully set the cup to the side.

"Part of my distance from Rosie was the fact that being her father guaranteed that I could never be part of Baker Street again. I mean I could play at it from time to time, but she had to come first and that meant that you were going to be shed of me at some point in time. So, I have waffled and made huge mistakes. Some dark idiot part of me was convinced that I was doing this for you." John gripped his hands together and gestured as he spoke.

"Not in any way your fault, but somewhere I seem to have lost my concept of you and allowed our own legend to get in the way and become reality. I cannot even blame it on Eurus. It was me. I stopped seeing and wasted time on anger and hurt feelings and my interpretation of events even when they were later proved wrong. It became a cycle, I was angry, and every single action and word since has been based on that perspective. Not reality, but my view of every event, judged on a false premise."

Sherlock said softly, "If the premise is false the conclusion must be flawed, even if it is later proven correct, it was a guess and not based in logic."

"Yes. Exactly. Last night, I finally started over. I examined every event without the anger."

"And what did you find?" Sherlock asked, breathing heavier than he should have been.

"The man I love more than life. The man I got in the Hummer with, knowing it is going to cost me my life. The man I beg for a miracle every time losing him is reality. The man who broke my heart when he agreed to marry another and the most brilliant and exciting man I have ever met." John reached in his pocket and withdrew a small grey, suede leather box. He turned it in his hands. "This is not a condition. It is not blackmail and it is not manipulating you. It is me taking the shot, that I should have, the second you came back to me from the grave."

John stood and dropped to a squatting position and then to one knee. "Sherlock Holmes, I am a pathetic sod, and I will never deserve you, and I know you have agreed to marry Gideon and he is a better man, but if I don't at least ask, then I will never know."

He popped the lid to the box open, displaying two photographs of men's rings. They were CAD drawings and colourised to represent the future objects. They had a honeycomb pattern with a violin imposed on one and a tiny stethoscope garnished the other.

"I have wronged you in so many ways and I will require a lifetime to make up for them. Would you do me the honour of allowing me to do so as not just your partner, but your husband?"

Sherlock gave a slow blink and his mouth dropped open.

"Well, shit," Greg said, with more awe than venom.

Sherlock said nothing. John waited and then stood up and sat back in his chair.

"You not waiting for an answer?" Greg asked.

"He does this. Give him a bit, he will reboot and think we have heard an entire conversation taking place in his head. Probably be annoyed that we did not hear his head squirrels chattering and fume at having to repeat it." John picked up his cup of tea and sipped it, made a face, and stood to go to the kitchen. "You need another. Mine is stone cold."

Greg handed him his cup and sighed disheartened. This was an unexpected turn of events.

John returned with the tea and picked up a newspaper. A few minutes passed and Sherlock suddenly took a deep breath and stood. He scratched his face and looked at both men. John put his newspaper aside and stood as well. Greg followed suit though he had no idea to what purpose.

Sherlock turned to Greg and took his hand. They both said in unison, "I am breaking up with you!"

They laughed and yet there was some sorrow and Sherlock said a whispered, "Doesn't mean it was not real."

Greg grabbed him and hugged him tightly and tears in his eyes, he gave a sniff. "I know, Sunshine. It is what you want. Go be happy."

Mycroft appeared in the doorway just then. He had come up the stairs far more silently than his usual three-point announcement. "I realise my presence is probably less than welcome, but I have heard the news and wanted to... well..."

Greg and Sherlock parted, and Greg wiped his eyes, embarrassed that Mycroft would show up, now of all times.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft and turned to John, "Yes. I will marry you instead."

"Just like that? You don't have any--"

"Sherlock! What the hell do you think you are doing. You cannot marry him at a time like this? That is the cruelest thing I've ever heard!" Mycroft stepped into the room and toward Greg, protectively.

"John asked, I agreed. That is how it works, Mycroft!"

"Dear God you are a cad. And you, Doctor Watson are more of one for asking! Gregory, I know you are very cross with me, but I want to assure you that I am making several options available. We cannot allow small misunderstandings to colour our bigger picture." Mycroft pulled a file and opened it.

"Okay? That's very nice of you?"

"I have made preliminary bookings. I recommend this one in Hungary, as they have a ninety-seven percent success rate, though my own research has shown it to be above or below, depending on the indisposition. This is where, I hope you will allow me to take you, they are not the most expensive, but they are the best--"

"You want to take me to a spa because you heard I broke up with your brother as it was happening... Gerson Institute... looks nice. But, I can't keep taking time off... and on top of that, I am really angry with you...what the hell kind of spa is this... coffee enema... Did you let Sherlock pick this? I have not ..."

John stopped making eyes at Sherlock and tuned into the other conversation. "Gerson Institute... the cancer place?"

Mycroft turned, "Of course the cancer place. For God's sake, Doctor! Can't you even stop mooning over the brother you hate but want to now marry long enough to discuss his options?"

"We are discussing options. That is what we are doing! Nobody mentioned cancer! Greg, have you been keeping this from us?" John asked, temper heating.

Sherlock turned, and asked with hurt and fear on his face, "Why did't you tell me?"

"Wait? Who has cancer? It was Mycroft's idea? Maybe it is him who has cancer?" Greg reasoned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with exasperation. "I most certainly do not. I am sorry if you have failed to tell them, but my sources at NSY have assured me that they received this information directly from you. I am sorry, but everyone knows. There is to be a benefit for you. They have started a Go fund me? Your secret is out, I am afraid and I do not care about our quarrel. I am going to see you have the finest care and we are going to focus on you getting strong and beating this... I have put in for a leave of absence and I assure you, money is of no concern. I will pay for any and all treatment above or alternative to the NHS recommended protocols. I have the Bs looking for your medical records as we speak, private diagnosis, obviously, not pinged the system. I only ask that you allow me the kindness of offering the man I love and adore the right of his company whilst we fight--"

"Mycroft, what in the bleeding ... that is highly generous."

"Not at all, surely you know of my perdurable veneration. I suspire in design that you become my inamorato?"

"I do not have cancer. I am fit as a butcher's dog! The rest of that sounds like you need to speak to John. What the hell are you talking about?"

"He loves you to the end of time and wants sex.. but in a stuffy nice way!" Sherlock supplied.

At this point Mycroft held out his own phone and there was a photo of half the department smiling under a banner, wearing matching logo shirts, "No one fights alone. We are with Greg Lestrade !"

"What the... Donovan! Oh God. I am going to kill her!" Lestrade looked up. "Figuratively not literally!"

"Wait just a moment, are all of you saying he is cancer free?" Mycroft asked his ears pinking dramatically. "Then what is happening here?"

Sherlock explained, "John backmailed me into marriage by promising to keep Rosie, I broke poor Greg--"

"I did Not Blackmail you? I told you it was not part of the--"

"..poor Greg's heart and dumped him practically at the alter--"

"You did not! I am fine. No cancer! No suicide watch. In fact I am going to work and getting a nosy bagman promoted so I can get a trainable one!"

Sherlock talked louder to get over Greg's furious muttering. "... Leaving you, brother mine, a short window of opportunity to snatch him up before you lose him again. You need to make a grand gesture, nothing too ostentatious but something he will find unique and romantic so he has an excuse to over look the abominable way you have treated him..."

Mycroft sighed, "I have not. I am sorry I lost the necklace. I did not throw it away. I lost it, I felt so horrible, I went all the way to Saint James, put up with my sister, who has a camel in the kitchen, so I could replace it, hoping Gregory would not notice, I am wearing it now, if you were to bother looking. I searched for it. It was just gone. I was an Arse the day Siger performed the anointing but, you would be dead in a matter of hours and he was laughing like a hyena. Imagine how I could feel hurt by such disregard--"

"You called me a disappointment."

"No. I did not! You never let me finish what I am saying!"

John interjected, "But you do talk a lot... "

Sherlock added, "People get bored."

"I was right there. I heard you!"

"No, you heard me begin a sentence, interrupted me and screamed at me on the Streets of London. What you did not do was allow me to blather all the way to the end! I am so disappointed that you would hear such an important confession in such a manner, when I have written pages to you, planned romantic venues and dreamed of seeing your face when I confessed my deepest heart. It was instead snatched from my fingers by my idiot brother, spying on me!"

Greg played the conversation back in his head and a dawning look of consternation crossed his features.

"Then say it now, brother mine. Say what you mean, plainly and without showing off your vocabulary, which only serves to confuse him further. Take the leap! Dip your toe into the unknown, incalculable, unquantifiable... do something on a whim, Mycroft... for once...just take a chance and TELL him!"

Mycroft shook his head and shoved a hand in his pocket. He straightened his already exemplary posture and bowed slightly to Sherlock. "Very well. What have I to lose, at this juncture. We can all call dignity a ship that has not only sailed, but has scuttled on the rocks."

"For God's sake get on with it?" Sherlock prompted.

Mycroft took a deep breath, bracing for the inevitable rejection and said softly, "I love you. I have for years. I would marry you, tonight if I thought for an instant that you would have me. I love you!"

Greg scratched his head, "I am. I don't know what to say?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, "Say yes, you idiot! Work out the rough bits later. When you have ask a Djinn for a boon, and he grants your wish, you simply say yes!"

Greg winked at Sherlock and smiled up at Mycroft. "He's right. Usually is... so yes!"

Mycroft's face transformed with an open mouthed smile of surprise, "Really?"

"Yeah. Really. I thought you hated me when you took all the cameras down."

Mycroft smiled sheepishly and chewed his lip whilst scrunching his nose, then said mostly to the ceiling, "Well... took down is a bit of an exaggeration. Better hidden would be far more truthful."

"You dog!"

"A bit. We are testing a new series of cameras, they are a tenth the size of the old ones, seem to be functioning most admirably. Your block of flats was a test area." Mycroft shrugged.

"Is that my grand gesture?" Greg asked with a playful smile.

Mycroft gave a cocky smirk. "In fact, it is not the end of the Grand gestures." He bent back to his briefcase and pulled out two brogues. "I have also managed to reunite some Items I have been informed you have had some difficulties keeping in the same...country?"

  
"My SHOES!!!! I am definitively going to marry you now! "Greg stepped forward and soundly kissed Mycroft with an enthusiasm that left the poor British Government disarrayed. "Got anything else in that bag of tricks?"

"There was a small cash advance for any unforeseen expenses you might have incurred for medical transportation and things of that sort. I suggest we perhaps redirect it, to a small celebratory dinner, if anyone is so inclined?"

"Here we go... guided by his stomach!" Sherlock taunted.

"That should be returned. I am not sick."

"You love my brother, debatable!" Sherlock rocked his head back and forth.

"It was from my own, vault. Not donations."

John went over and peeked in Mycroft's bag, "Oh good, looks like we can afford a trip to the offie too, though I think we should designate sleeping arrangements prior to us all getting mashed?"

There were a plethora of explanations and some apologies and four men who could never have it said that they did not know how to push the boat out now and then.

The hangovers were unmentionable and the night difficult to agree on or recall.

The best part of the night was the fact that Greg returned still in possession of both of his shoes. John was wearing them, but they were still together.

Whilst still in the early stages of intoxication, Greg pulled Sherlock aside and asked, "I can't believe that bloody worked! Both of us got proposed too!"

"I knew it all along. Because I am Sherluck Hommzz and I am a consulted... something..."

"Matchmaker ... light weight?"

"Mmmm. Yesh... that! My brother is bollocks at wooooo. You will have to be in charge." Sherlock confessed helpfully.

Greg looked at Mycroft, across the room and his chin was down and his eyebrows up in that sexy smile of his and Greg decided that was a whole new game.

There were pictures to prove this event, that involved a great number of tongues and nether bits attacked by markers. Mycroft swore every one was photoshopped and his new saying was, "Never trust a camera They all lie and things are never what they seem."

Sally Donovan needed her medication adjusted soon after being graced with the news that Greg was not ill with the big C and had traded the Freak in for his older scarier brother, whom she dubbed the Ravin-Freak.

Mycroft helped her get promoted.

 

Everyone lived annoyed and harried ever after... but my God, you can imagine the Christmas Dinners!

 

The end ...of the line... or Royston Vasey

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~<~<

Yes this place exists.

https://gerson.org/gerpress/gerson-health-centre/

 

Raven  
A male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes  
( why Mycroft considered it complimentary)

  
In case you did not get the reference.   
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royston_Vasey

  
Well, dear reader, I hope you have enjoyed my little tale. I have had so much fun writing it and you have all been so kind. However, I am done for this moment, but there will be one more bonus chapter. In a week or so.. we will have a little peak at the Christmas dinners! Thank you new and old for the kind comments. I adore you all.

 


	68. Chapter 68

I planned to give you a Christmas one shot, but, well, there is more. For those of you who have bookmarked waiting for that, this will be a second adventure. 

Please click the next part of the series and thank you so much for the Kudos, comments and for joining me on another mad adventure. 

Well, time to pop off and hope for a soft landing... come on... it is getting away...


End file.
